


You Teach Me and I'll Teach You

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Series: Adult Education [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Middle School, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Beach Sex, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Coming Out, First Kiss, First Time, Friendship/Love, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hotel Sex, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mycroft kidnapping someone again, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock AU, Shower Sex, Teacher-Teacher relationship, Triggers, Ugliness, hardcore homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:18:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 61,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. John Watson, with his recent PhD in music education, takes a job at Jesup Arts Magnet Middle School, where he meets the most obnoxious, irritating, fascinating, handsome gifted History teacher. With no where to live, John accepts Sherlock Holmes' offer of sharing a house on Baker Street. But will a Southern community accept two male teachers in a relationship or will they be forced to quit?<br/>(Explicit/E rated for later chapters)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Late Start to a New Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> *Thanks for joining me on this AU! and a huge thanks to 221btls for believing in me and this fic.  
> *The title comes from yes, the Pokemon theme song!  
> *specific music terms will be explained (when necessary) at the end of each chapter. 
> 
> *As always, these characters do not belong to me, but to BBC/Hartswood. I just take them out and play with them.  
> *The song in this chapter is "Don't Do Sadness/Blue Wind" from the Broadway musical "Spring Awakening" by Steven Slater and Duncan Sheik. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F4NLoNpoG7o

John Watson soaked up the broiling early-October sun, warming his bones from the air conditioning chill. Unlike London, Florida's temperatures this time of year, even mid-afternoon, would still hover near 90--32C. He laughed at himself for converting to Celsius, even after 7 years. The warmth felt right. This job felt right. It was time for things to turn around.

The door behind John closed, and he turned toward the tapping of shoes in the sidewalk.

 "Again, welcome to our team, Dr. Watson,” Principal Lestrade said heartily. “You're going to love teaching here at Jesup Arts Magnet Middle. If there's anything you need, just come ask Ms. Adler or me, or ..." and with a handshake and a last clap on the shoulder, Lestrade answered his squawking walkie-talkie as he walked toward the gym.

"Let me show you to the Chorus room,” Assistant Principal Adler said over her shoulder as she turned and began walking. “They finished the renovations over the summer, including new AC and beautiful windows!" Ms. Adler, who introduced herself as Irene, gave no indication he should actually call her that. He caught up with her, but had trouble keeping up with her quick pace.  As they turned the corner at the end of the administration building, a sobbing young girl crashed into Ms. Adler.

“Siobhan! What happened?” Ms. Adler asked, less concerned with the child than with the tear stains now on her suit jacket.

“Mr…Holmes…and…then… I…” the tiny girl, who must have been a 6th grader, sobbed so intensely, she could barely speak. “And Mr. Holmes sent me… to… youhoohoohoo…” John handed her a tissues from a package in his jacket pocket, but it didn’t stand a chance against Siobhan’s waterworks.

“Go wait in my office. I will speak with Mr. Holmes, and we’ll figure it all out,” Ms. Adler patted the young girl’s shoulder and sent her on her way.

Ms. Adler shook her head and under her breath muttered something about “some people… God’s gift…pain in the ass…”  Her heels echoed down the exterior corridor as she led John to the Arts building.

“What was that?” John asked, in shock over Siobhan’s breakdown.

“Our Gifted History teacher is extremely…demanding…with the students. His expectations are often unreasonable, yet his students consistently test off the charts on our state’s standardized testing,” she answered, clearly aggravated.

“And because of that,” John filled in the blank, “he is never reprimanded.”

"You'll be pleased with our music program here at JAMMS,” Ms. Adler changed the subject, as she approached door 5-001, labeled Symphony. Unlocking the door (“We are committed to the safety of the children at ALL times.”), Ms. Adler gestured for John to step in.

 John breathed in deeply--the scent of dirty socks and cafeteria pizza mixed with the unmistakable lingering odor of floor wax and bleach wipes. "Classrooms smell the same everywhere," he said, trying to make conversation. “My school room in England smelled just like this plus chalk dust.”

John considered complimenting her, saying she was too young to remember chalk. Maybe flattery would earn him future brownie points, if not more. Ms. Adler, who was easily ten years younger than his 38, was stunning. Her clothes were well tailored to her figure, and he had never seen a teacher wear such high heels before. She wasn't exactly his type, but she looked damn good.  Maybe he would ask her to dinner when he got settled in. Who knows...No. He'd dated men and women equally but after Mary, he had sworn off women. Blokes were easier to hang out with and easier to enjoy.          

"You won't find another music room like this in the county,” she said proudly, pointing to the rows of drums (African, Conga, Bongo plus more John couldn't name) against the north wall, and the adjoining east wall lined with string instruments from violin to double bass, as well as guitars. John's jaw dropped. Even the university didn't have resources like this.    

“Lake Jesup County Public Schools is committed to excellence in arts education; your PhD in music education was exactly what we were looking for because we are _the_  magnet school for arts. In addition to your chorus courses, we have dance, symphony, art, and are now branching into technology with drawing tablets and various computer programs,” Ms. Adler said proudly.

She led them through a connecting practice area to the Chorus room and his office. Ms. Adler unconsciously patted her upswept hair, reassured it was still in place and adjusted her suit jacket to tidy wrinkles that weren't there.

No impressive display of instruments in his room, but the view out the large, tinted windows that took up most of the side wall more than made up for it. John had been in the room once before, during his interview, but now he could really take stock. Two closets directly across from his office (probably uniforms and robes, maybe music storage). Risers built into the floor. That will get the kids used to the idea of standing on proper performance risers. Plenty of floor space for dancing with the show choir, plus a nice bonus: a full wall mirror that would help them learn the dance routines.

“This is  _the_ most beautiful class room I have ever been in,” John said, his voice filled with emotion. “I am so grateful to be here.”         

“No, _we_ are lucky to have a Chorus director with a doctorate in music. At JAMMS, we are committed to providing our students the best educators possible,” Ms. Adler said as she checked the clock on her iPhone. John rolled his eyes, and knew this woman was committed to parroting the district handbook. She added, “If you have no further questions Dr. Watson, I'll...”           

“Vice Principal Adler, I have been trying to reach you for three days now.” A dark, curly-haired, rail-thin man barged into the room, interrupting without hesitation. “May I borrow your phone?” he said to her, ignoring the man standing next to her who gaped at his rudeness.           

“What's wrong with the phone in your classroom, Mr. Holmes?” she asked curtly.            

John caught the name. Holmes? Sobbing student Holmes? He’s a bit…posh.        

“I would like to access my email to show you how many times I have emailed you!” He had his hand out, expecting a phone would appear in it.

“Mine is in my office,” she lied and turned toward the door to leave.“Mr. Holmes,” she said, turning toward the voice. “Please allow me to introduce Dr. John Watson. He is our new chorus director and vocal instructor. He'll be starting this Monday.” She turned back toward John and rolled her eyes as she said, “Dr. Watson, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He is one of our History teachers.”

“ _Gifted_ History,” Holmes corrected.

“Here. Use my phone,” John offered. Behind him, Ms. Adler groaned under her breath.           

Sherlock took the iPhone and accessed his online mailbox.  “Florida State University or the University of South Florida?”  

“Sorry?”

“Which Doctoral program?”

“Florida State. How did you know...”

“Ms. Adler, if you would please address my emails regarding these antiquated text books as well as approve my request to take my 8th graders to Saint Augustine to introduce the students to Florida's living heritage, I would appreciate it beyond words.” Somehow, thought John, there was a bit too much sarcasm for Mr. Holmes' appreciation to be sincere. “It is a shame when a British Expatriate knows more about the history of Florida than its citizens do. As an expatriate yourself, you must feel the same way, Dr. Watson.” With that, the tall, slender man turned and left the room.

“Yes. He's always like that,” Ms. Adler said, and she too left the room, leaving John standing alone in the chorus room. Within 15 minutes, the bell rang to end the day. John waded into the sea of students, before deciding that it was useless and returned to his room. His. It had been a long time since he'd stood in a classroom. 

Seven years ago he'd left the bone chilling cold of London to teach in central Florida for one year. One year teaching turned into two years in a Masters' program and then three in working for his PhD. And now, Doctor John Watson was the newest faculty member at the first arts magnet program in Lake Jesup County.

"Well," John imitated Ms. Adler's Dixie Belle accent. "Ah am committed to succeeding!!

But now, he had to list all of the things he needed to beg, borrow or buy and things he needed to do. John had no idea where to start. He needed to make an impact immediately. Seven weeks. School had been in session for seven weeks by the time he was hired.

At his interview, Lestrade explained about the prior Chorus director. Open House morning--always the first Monday in August--students come in, grab their schedules and walk the campus to meet their teachers. That morning the choir teacher resigned. Immediately. Her new job started ASAP. So long. Bye-bye.  Post the job. Interview candidates, re-interview a few. The first quarter was more than half over by the time the principal offered Dr. Watson the job. John met several of the classes during his interview; the students were ill-behaved and unprepared for the first concert scheduled for Halloween. He would definitely earn his salary this year!

John inventoried the room: the newly painted pale yellow cinder block walls would be hard to hang posters on (note: buy some sticky tack, not tape), the floor was highly polished (note: ask the custodians to hold off polishing---the kids had to stay upright to dance!), and two locked closet doors held ...no idea. No keys.

That was the first on the list of No.

No keys for the closets. No time before the concert, no... When he taught in a secondary school outside of London John was close to burned out. Cranky. Short tempered. Seeing only problems and not celebrating joys. The year teaching in Orlando reinvigorated him, and then the two degrees...he was MORE than ready to lead these kids, to show them what their voices could do. What they could do.       

“Not NO. Not this time,” John said, flexing his left hand out of the fist he'd made by his side. He closed his eyes and sang to clear his head, his left heel stamping in time to the music only he could hear.   
  
 ** _'Cause ya know...I don't do sadness...Not even a little bit..._**

 ** _Just don't need it in my life...Don't want any part of it..._  
  
** The acoustics in the room were good. Very good. Without opening his eyes, John continued singing the Broadway tune, hearing the orchestra inside his head, and even the counter melody...  
  
 _ ****Spring and Summer...every other day...Blue Wind gets so lost...****_

 _ **Blowin' through the thick corn, through the bales of hay...**_  
  
John started when he realized the counter melody was  _in_ the room, not in his head, a beautiful tenor answering his baritone. The song enveloped John. He was afraid to open his eyes, unsure who he would find or if he had gone properly crazy and only imagined it, but when the song ended, he slowly opened them as he turned around.           

Sherlock Holmes, the irritable history teacher without a cell phone, looked uncomfortable as if he were trying to decide if he should leave or stay for the inevitable mocking.         

“That was...amazing,” John said, his smile filling his face.           

Sherlock could barely reply. “Do you think so?”        

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.” John rarely met men who were willing to sing in public, let alone show tunes.

“That’s not what people normally say...” Sherlock answered, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He let out the breath he had been holding.

“What do people normally say?” John asked his colleague, this British gentleman in a Florida school, who would sing, who seemed slightly awkward and confused by John...          

“‘Piss off’!” They both laughed.         

“Yes. Well. I'm John. John Watson," he said extending his hand again in introduction.

 "Yes. Ms. Adler, although quite dim, did manage to get at least that social grace correct. Americans are woefully lacking in common courtesy," Sherlock said, ignoring the proffered hand and focusing on his smart phone.

“Yes well uh... Sherlock, was it? Is that what your friends call you?”

Annoyed, Sherlock looked away from his phone to John. “What else would they call me?” 

“I don't know. Sherl. Sherly. Lock. Holmsie? Shezza when you're out clubbing.” John realized he was being ridiculous. Clearly no one would dare call him Shezza even if he did go out clubbing. Which John SERIOUSLY doubted.            

Sherlock Holmes straightened to his full six feet. He looked directly into the shorter chorus teacher's fading smile and raised one eyebrow.           

"Shezza? Is that the most creative you could be?" Sherlock sniffed in disgust. "What about The Lock Smith. Or Mah Holmes! Or even Li'l Lock. I now have no hope for this music program."

John looked at the too tall, too curly, too thin, too pale, too...cheek-boned man standing before him, the smile at the corner of his mouth and thought, ‘You are…too much.’       

John picked up the pad he had used for his impromptu inventory, and resolving to come by one day this weekend, he locked his office door and turned to Sherlock.

“Why come back this weekend?” Sherlock asked, as John ushered him out to the sidewalk and locked the classroom door behind them. “What do you need to do?”

“I want to dust and sweep, decorate, take a proper inventory...wait. How did you guess that?"

"I don't guess. I observe. It's the same way that I knew about your doctorate. You are clearly a meticulous man and having a disorganized and dusty room would make you crazy."

"If you know that much of me then how can I not come back this weekend?"

"Granted. However I was testing a theory, to see if you are as meticulous with your living area as you are with yourself."

John looked at Sherlock, knowing that this man was insane.    

“I'm not crazy. I promise. That's what you were thinking wasn't it?  I have my reasons. Are you hungry?”       

“Starving.”

“I know a good Italian place. They stay open til 2 a.m…”

“Since it's barely 5, and the only people who eat at this time are the geriatrics... Yes. Italian sounds great but I need to run errands first. I have to find a teacher store to buy decorations for this classroom. It's appalling."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the thought of perky bulletin board papers and adorable posters, like the "Hang In There!!" kitty and "There Is No I in TEAM!!" He tried to sway John toward a music store or at least a bookstore but John stood resolute.

"Teacher store. Then dinner. Then we can negotiate."

Sherlock followed John to his car, a 10-year old Volkswagen Jetta that had seen a lot of love and a lot of miles. And clearly, better days.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Is it actually, properly safe?" He hesitated to even open a door.

"Yes you arse. It gets me back and forth to Tallahassee just fine. It will get us to the teacher store. Unless you would rather take that red Jaguar over there?” John snarked, wondering if this man were already too much work.

“Well, yes. Why don't we?” Sherlock answered, holding up his key ring and the Jag's keyless fob.

"You have got to be bloody well kidding me,” John answered, then laughed. No, of course not. Nothing about this Sherlock Holmes would be what he expected. Why WOULDN'T a British man, a middle school History teacher, drive a $90,000 salsa red convertible. “Fine. We will take yours,” John laughed and Sherlock's smile spread to his eyes. “But at some point tonight, I'm driving that.”

“I do not doubt that,” Sherlock said, eyebrow raised, and heading toward his car.

The teacher supply store was exactly what John needed (and Sherlock's private hell). He spent close to $200 on posters for the wall (Stop! You're under a REST, even a parody of the SOPRANOS television show, with some tough looking female singers in black suits), bulletin board supplies, and student of the week pencils and brightly colored certificates. Sherlock busied himself on his iPhone, hacking into the store's password-protected WiFi.

“Obviously, the password would be something like, 'chalk', John.” Sherlock answered with a sigh.

Sherlock allowed John to drive to the restaurant, and when John slid behind the wheel, he moaned in pleasure. “These seats, oh my God, they just, they're so comfortable!” John pushed the keyless ignition button, and carefully backed out of the spot and edged toward the exit. 

“It's just a car, John. Don't drive like an old man,” Sherlock complained.  John pulled out into traffic and used as many of the car's features as he could in the five minute drive to the restaurant.

 

 


	2. In Vino Veritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock invites John to dinner after they run errands. They reveal their past, and how it made them who they are. In Vino Veritas: In Wine, there is truth. A LOT of truths, often better left hidden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So happy to have BBC/Hartwood's characters to unpack and play with. They don't belong to me, and if you recognize the words, they don't belong to me, either. 
> 
> Thank you to ArianeDeVere's AMAZING transcripts--her patience made my job SO much easier! (kisses!)
> 
> The very best TY to 221btls who is the best. Beta. Ever.

“Sherlock!” A tall, portly man greeted John and Sherlock heartily, wiping his hands on his chef’s apron. “Welcome! Welcome!” He shook Sherlock's hand and then turned to John. "You too! Welcome to Angelo’s. Take your table. Sit. Sit!” As he pulled John's chair out for him, he said, “I am Angelo. Any friend of Sherlock's is a friend here! I'll get a candle. It’ll make the table more romantic.” He scurried away.

“Romantic? Does he think I'm your date?” John asked Sherlock, engrossed in texting. “I'm not his date!” he called after Angelo, who waved behind him. “Besides,” John said, turning his attention back to Sherlock, “it would take more than a plate of spaghetti and a glass of white wine...”

Angelo placed the candle holder down in the center of their table and lit the votive. “More romantic already!” he said. “Everything is on the house for you and your date, Sherlock, but don't worry about ordering. I know what you want,” and left again, flagging down a waiter to bring the men two glasses and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. 

“What was _that_ about?” John said, pointing after Angelo. “I helped him a few years ago,” Sherlock said, eyes glued to his phone. “His son was failing middle school, and I tutored him until he passed every subject. With A’s.” John chuckled; of course straight A’s.

They sat quietly, picking at the warm Italian bread and the antipasto the waiter brought to their table. Neither talked simply to fill the void. The companionable silence felt like an understanding between old friends.  As Angelo placed an oversized portion of lasagna in front of him, John broke the silence.  “So. What can I expect from the faculty at JAMMS?"

"They are idiots. No, don't look like that," he said to John's shocked expression. "Most people are. They are well meaning though, and I believe they care for the students. I'll grant them that." "And the kids? How are they?"

"Dull. Incapable of generating an original thought. But for the most part harmless,"

"And you? How do they feel about you?" John smiled as he asked, still thinking of Sobbing Siobhan. 

"Don't be foolish. You already know. They _learn_ in my class. I force them to _think_. Of course they view me as their arch enemy," Sherlock laughed, waving his hand in dismissal. Siobhan surely did.

“You _do_ know that people don't have arch enemies in real life?" John shook his head, unsure what this man knew.

"Really. What do they have?" Sherlock asked, twirling his spaghetti on his fork more out of boredom than a desire eat.

John finished his mouthful of lasagna, took a sip of his wine, and patted his mouth with his napkin. "Friends. People they like. Colleagues," he said, gesturing to include them both. "Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Do you have a girlfriend then?" John asked.

"No. Not really my area," Sherlock said looking into John's face.

"Oh,” John said, not sure how to interpret that comment. “Ohhh. Right then. A boyfriend?" John tried to cover his embarrassment-- _interest?_ \--with a large sip of wine. "Which is fine."

"I know it's fine. But no." Sherlock looked away to the antipasto plate and speared a black olive with his fork.          

"So you're unattached like me." A brief smile flitted across John's face, he hoped quickly enough that Sherlock wouldn’t have seen it.

"John, I should tell you that, while I am flattered by your interest, I consider it bad form to create entanglements with colleagues..."

"No. No. I'm not asking," John replied quickly. Dammit. He'd seen. His glass empty, John and Sherlock reached for the bottle at the same time, hands overlapping for an instant. “Ok?”

John pulled his away and Sherlock poured another generous glassful. “Ok,” Sherlock agreed.

They refocused their attention to their plates: John enjoying his lasagna, Sherlock pushing his spaghetti around, spreading it to look like there was less than at the start.

“So. Why Florida?” John asked, searching for a safe conversation starter.

“After Cambridge, I had my parents' blessing to take a year to backpack through the former Soviet countries, since that was what I took my degree in. I met a companion along the way, and we traveled together for the better part of the year, talking to people, interviewing them about the changes they had seen. Joshua and I discussed writing a book about what we saw and what we learned.      

“Eventually, our pooled money ran low, and we decided on a lark that a warmer climate would stimulate our creative abilities. Joshua had a friend from Uni. Carter was sharing a flat in Orlando with two women and offered us a place to stay. They happily shared everything with us,” Sherlock stopped, turning his attention to the drink he had barely touched.

“What happened?” John asked quietly, wanting to reach for Sherlock's hand.

“Surely you can guess,” he said without looking at John. “Joshua took their invitation to share everything quite literally, and when I came home from work one Wednesday, he was sharing Carter's bed.” 

John couldn't look at him; he took another drink, and waited for Sherlock to continue.  Suddenly, he wasn’t some cranky teacher, but a vulnerable young man with a broken heart.

“I took the bare beginnings of the book and my clothes, and I left. My parents offered me two options: find a 'real' job in the states or return home to look for a teaching job. They accepted my counteroffer of enrolling at a college here. I earned a Masters' Degree in teaching history. Along the way I became terribly interested in Florida history. And here I am.” Sherlock’s eyes wouldn’t meet John’s.

John's glass was empty again, and as he reached for the bottle, he felt woozy, realizing for the first time exactly how much wine he’d drunk.

“Take mine,” Sherlock said, and pushed his glass toward John.

“Are you sure?” John asked as he took the proffered glass.            

“One of us has to be able to drive, John. And it's not you,” Sherlock laughed and John giggled. “And you? What brought you to Florida?”

“The sun. No, don’t laugh. I moved here for the weather, like some old person!” John said, joining Sherlock in laughing.

John told Sherlock about the particularly cold December afternoon in 2007 when he decided to change his life. With newly falling snow, John huddled under his wool blanket in front of the fireplace in his flat and cursed winter. Every. Single. Day. Of. It. The slush, the snow, but especially the ice that hid beneath the snow and stole his footing and his dignity more times than he wanted to remember. The hot pink paper tacked on the message board in the teachers' workroom at school promised freedom from this shite:

_**TIRED OF UK WEATHER? LIKE TO TRAVEL?** _

_**We match UK and USA teachers to job swap for one year!** _

  
"I thought, ‘Oh HELL yes!’ There wasn’t much information on the sheet, but when I got home, I went online and researched the company.” Schools all across the USA were accepting visiting teachers, either in a job swap or outright on a one year contract. All John would need was a work visa and a year’s leave of absence from King’s Cross School.  

John watched Sherlock push his food around to seem like he was eating, and said, “Do you do this often? Pretend to eat?”

Sherlock ignored the question, so John continued. He had spoken to a lovely woman in Orlando who was delighted with his accent. If it kept him chatting, she happily answered his questions about letting a flat, the price of food, even about public transportation. He converted the salary to pounds and found it extremely generous. 

“At that moment, on a cold snowy December late afternoon, all I could think about was the 80 degree day in central Florida, wearing shorts all year. I was huddled under my blanket, my nose a little stiff from cold, and that was it,” John said.  He applied for the leave of absence and the work visa.

Confused by the US’s system of grades and schools, John settled on middle school, teaching teens who would be old enough to have voices he could cultivate and young enough to be excited about singing. The older students he taught now were so blasé, so bored. He struggled daily to keep his mood light and encouraging. One decision down...

“After teaching and living here for a year, I decided to invest in myself. I got my Masters and then qualified for a fellowship to pay for my PhD in Musical Education. I always wanted to be Doctor John Watson,” he said proudly.

Sherlock watched him speak animatedly about going back to university, his excitement to get back into the classroom. The spark in John's eyes made them impossibly bluer...like Caribbean waters. A long time ago Sherlock had been that excited about teaching... 

“I guess we should go. I have a long drive back to Tallahassee tonight,” John said, trying to stand up but The Chair and its accomplice White Wine won.

“You're not driving anywhere tonight,” Sherlock said, steadying John who finally stood upright.

He helped John to the car and poured him into the passenger seat. With a raised eyebrow Sherlock said, “If you're going to be ill, let me know and I will stop. Under no circumstances are you to vomit in my car.”

“Heehee you said vomit,” John giggled. “Puke. Uke, Ukulele, I can't play a ukulele. Can you Sherlock? Ukulele is a weird word. Like Sherlock.” Sherlock shook his head and drove home, letting John chatter.

“I like Florida. I have met a LOT of nice people. You. And Mary. I don't like her any more. We were gonna get married but she got so mad at me. She didn’t like my friend Jackson. Well, I say friend…Mary’s a bitch. But that's good, that's better. My parents don't know I like men better. Better than Mary the Bitch. Her parents don't know either. Or they wouldn't let me room there. People get so touchy when you call off a wedding. Did you ever call off a wedding Sherlock? Did you want to marry Joshua? No, you couldn't. Not all the way back then. Hahahaha. Oh my stomach. Sherlock and Josh and dinosaurs in Orlando. Was he a bitch too, like Mary? Oh Sherlock. Sherlock. I need to...”

The Jag pulled over quickly, and John barely made it out the door. Unfortunately, it was Sherlock's driveway.

“Oh God, Sherlock, this is bad. I'm so sorry. I uked...hahahahaha...I said uked. In your driveway,” John pointed back to the spot as Sherlock guided him through the front door, and into the bathroom in the Master bedroom. 

As John washed up and used his finger as a toothbrush, Sherlock turned back the covers on the king-sized bed. He placed a glass of cold water and Tylenol on the bedside table.

“How are you?” he asked John, coming out of the bathroom a little steadier on his feet.

“Depends. How many beds are there in here?”

“Just one,” Sherlock smiled.

"I'm going to need your help finding the real one, but first, could I borrow a shirt. This one is, well...” John pointed to the stain on the front.

Sherlock respectfully averted his eyes as John stripped off his dirty polo shirt, no tan but nicely muscled, blond hair peppered his chest and led down...John pulled the University of Central Florida Graduation Weekend 2004 t-shirt over his head. When Sherlock looked back, John stood confused with his khakis pooled around his ankles.

“I can't get them off my feet!” John giggled again, but Sherlock focused on the red boxer briefs hugging John's muscled thighs and tried to ignore what was around back.

‘Remember,’ Sherlock thought. ‘It is bad form to become entangled with colleagues.’

To try to speed things along, John fell back onto the bed and lifted his feet to waist level. “Can you help me, Sherl? Please? Sherl. I said Sherl.” John's laughter made it impossible for him to keep his feet still for Sherlock to help.

“You git. You need to take your shoes off first,” but when Sherlock looked up from the first shoelace, John was blissfully asleep, sideways on the king-sized bed. Sherlock finished removing the shoes and trousers and tucked a pillow under John's head, and placed a fleece blanket over him.

“Good night, Doctor John Watson.”


	3. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bright daylight is wonderful for helping the brain remember things it would MUCH rather forget from the night before!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *As always, these amazing characters belong to BBC/HARTSWOOD. I just take them out of the toy box and play with them for a bit. 
> 
> *Ariane DeVere is a goddess for her transcripts of all 3 seasons of SHERLOCK.
> 
> *221BTLS is also a Beta Goddess. She stinkin' rocks.

"Good morning, sunshine," Sherlock called from the table on the screened porch when he heard John stumbling around the master bedroom. "Coffee, tea or Tylenol?" Next to the carafes on the table, a plate held several sticky sweet chocolate donuts.           

John opened the screen sliding door and stepped from the bedroom to the pool deck. He squinted in the early sun reflecting off the pool water. "Can you PLEASE tell the sun to be quieter? And you too, for Christ's sake. It's too fuckin’ early for all this chit chat."         

“It's half eleven John. You slept the day away, and we have things to do.” Sherlock deliberately rattled the newspaper as he folded it. He possibly smiled when John cringed at the racket.           

“We have things to do?” John sat in the patio chair and leaned his head against the table. He poured a glass of ice water for his Tylenol and wondered what plans they had agreed to last night. “Hey uh...did you ... Did I manage to get myself undressed last night?”          

Sherlock’s smile reached his eyes, and he shook his head no.           

“Uh thanks for your help. That was very…kind...” Mortified, John kept his eyes down not looking at Sherlock.  What the hell had he done or worse…said! “These plans…?” God, this was the exact reason he never drank…         

Sherlock folded the paper closed, louder than John thought was ever possible. “We discussed you moving in here. You said it would be both entertaining and economical.” Sherlock kept his face straight through the blatant lie.

“I don't remember that…” John brain scrambled to reconstruct the evening. “Let's see. Angelo's. Lasagna. Pasta. Coming to Florida. You coming to Florida…oh. Oh shit. Oh Christ. I got sick. In your car? Please, not in your Jag.”

Sherlock again smiled and shook his head no. “My driveway.”         

“Oh I’m so sorry. Oh fucking hell. What did I say? I said a bunch of stuff, didn’t I?”

Sherlock smiled with a wrinkled brow and nodded.  “Yes. You told me about Mary the Bitch…” John groaned as his head sank into his hands. “You told me about the cancelled wedding, and…”           

“Fuck. Why the wedding was cancelled…” John’s head dropped even lower.          

Sherlock poured another cup of coffee and as he added cream, he said, “I believe your reason was ‘I like boys more than girls anyway’ but that your parents do not yet know.         

FUCK. John didn’t even know this man, or what he would do with information like this. Over the years, John knew that—as a teacher—certain facts about his life were best kept quiet and tidy. If Sherlock were callous enough to reduce a little girl to tears, what could he extract from a grown man??          

“You have nothing to worry about from me, John,” Sherlock reassured him. “First, I do not engage in gossip. Second, if we are to be friends, I must respect your privacy. And…” Sherlock paused, “there are parts of my life I would prefer to keep private.”           

John’s sigh hurt his head. Would the Tylenol ever work? “Thank you, Sherlock. I really am grateful.”           

“Well, you are quite entertaining when you’re drunk!”

 “Wait. Wait a second. I don’t remember you asking me to move in here…” John said, drinking ice water to help clear his hangover.           

Sherlock ignored John and said, “It is an excellent suggestion. I rent this house from Mrs. Hudson. She also teaches history at the school. I have two extra bedrooms with private baths. There’s the in-ground pool. A garage—which is a necessity to hide your car from the neighbors. And although the rent may be more than you would pay with your ex-future in-laws, _I_ won’t look at you every night and think, you ruined my daughter’s life…”          

John laughed for the first time. “Yes, that would be a much higher price.” He grabbed a sticky donut, and wolfed it down, sucking the glaze off of his thumb and forefinger when he finished.  “But, we’ve only just met, and we’re going to live together? We don’t know a thing about each other; you may hate me sober.”             

“I know that you are not well off, but aren’t inclined to ask for or take money. You are tidy but not obsessive. You are kind and,” Sherlock grimaced, “thoughtful. Finally, you had the opportunity to be famous earlier in your life, but you chose teaching over fame.”          

John’s head pounded with the effort of trying to keep up.          

“How. Could you possibly. Know all that.”           

“You are not well off, but you are not inclined to ask for or take money. You have spent the last five years in graduate school so you were not working full time. Therefore, no money. You drive a car that is at least 10 years old; with as much driving as you did from Tallahassee to see Mary’s parents, you would have needed a more reliable vehicle, but wouldn’t accept their offer of a car or financial assistance. Your car is meticulously kept; you care about what you own and maintain it well, but you were not unduly upset over the vomit on your shirt last night. So, not obsessive.”          

John stared at Sherlock. “How do you know I am kind? And about my past.”         

“You were respectful to me, even though I was an arse when we first met, and you were genuinely moved by my…situation…with Joshua.  As for your possible fame, I heard you sing. Of course you could have been famous. Did you have a band growing up?”        

John’s face flushed in embarrassment. “Lock and Load. That’s what we were called. We played in pubs in the late 80s-early 90s. For a while, I wasn’t even old enough to get into the pubs if I hadn’t been in the band.”           

“Grunge band. Nirvana and Pearl Jam covers, but some original work, is that correct?”          

“Sherlock, you can’t know that.”          

“Actually, I can,” he said. “I spent many Friday nights at the Bearded Faverolles pub in Islington, listening to Lock and Load.” Sherlock laughed, a true laugh that lit his eyes and his face. “My older brother snuck me in because I was too young, because I was going to be a professional musician.” Mycroft. In ripped jeans and a t shirt and oversized plaid shirt. Ripped, worn Converse trainers. He was a terrific big brother back then, Sherlock thought.          

“Well, no autographs, please. And I don’t do toilets. All of those…deductions… that was amazing. How did you guess?”           

“I said yesterday, John. I don’t guess. I observe. I maintain my mind, since it is my computer, my ability to see beyond the obvious,” Sherlock lectured John.          

“Will I ever get used to these deductions?”          

“I sincerely doubt it, John. And I don’t miss much.”

They shared the sun and the caffeine in the peace of a mid-October day. Because Sherlock’s brain rarely rested, he devised a plan while John lazed in the sun and waited for the Tylenol to kick in. 

"I believe we should begin today at Mary’s parents’ house and attempt to remove any items you have there since logically those would be the most important to you..."           

"Sherlock this isn't a hostage situation and Sal and Marianne aren't terrorists. I'll call them and just make sure it's an ok time," John said, his head thrown back, warming his face. "Where did you sleep last night? I assume I crashed in your bed."           

"Quite literally, yes," Sherlock responded, tidying a stack of Civics tests he was grading. "I didn't. My body doesn't require much maintenance. It’s the work that’s important," he said, pointing to the stack on the table and the thick files in his gaping briefcase at his feet. “All the rest is transport.”           

"People can't go without sleep. You need..."          

"Transport, John. And you do realize that _doctor_ in front of your name does not qualify you to diagnose? Last night you attempted to feed me up. This morning it's sleep..."          

"Forget I said anything. I'll call Mary's parents and take a shower and we can go." John didn't know what pissed him off more right now: how rude Sherlock had been or that Sherlock was right. The man was old enough to take care of himself.          

By the time John showered ("What exactly are you going to change into, John?" and Sherlock handed him running shorts, a bit long and a bit small; a t-shirt and a new pair of underpants "It seems prudent to have extra. I'm sure you do, too"), ate lunch ("Yes Sherlock, it _is_ absolutely necessary that I eat something"), and they agreed what car to take ("You are not loading the effluvia of your life into the Jaguar. We will take our chances with your Volkswagen") it was nearly half one when they set out for the Morstan house.        

Mary’s parents were kind toward John but Sherlock read their underlying tension and frostiness.  He didn't miss the look between the parents when John introduced Sherlock as "my friend.” The smaller sized clothes and still wet hair probably didn't help their assumptions.           

“Where will you be living John? Will you be safe?" Mrs. Morstan had to ask.           

John had missed the eye conversation and the expressions exchanged between parents or he wouldn't have been as open and excited, "Sherlock asked me to live with him. I mean, share his house." John stopped before it sounded even worse. Their faces looked like that wasn’t even possible.           

"Sherlock rents a large home from one of the teachers and there are several extra rooms available. The neighborhood is directly across from the school. I will be staying with him until I can find a flat. Thank you again, for everything." He kissed Mrs. Morstan's cheek and shifted the carton he held to shake Mr. Morstan's hand, both with a sense of finality. With that, they loaded the few boxes into the Jetta and were on the way back to Sherlock's.             

"They seemed...lovely," Sherlock said to John, who was deep in thought as he drove.           

"They thought we were lovers," John burst out, slamming the steering wheel.

Deciding on honesty, Sherlock said, "Yes, I believe they did. Does that matter?"           

"It's just... Never mind. You wouldn't understand. "           

“On the contrary. You like and respect them and fear that if you are homosexual they will not respect _you_. If they liked you before, logically they should still like you now. Are you embarrassed about being gay?”          

John’s head faced forward, his eyes never leaving the road. It was safer, because if he looked at Sherlock, he might actually strangle him. It took him miles to respond to Sherlock’s question.          

“When I date women, we go out to the movies, to restaurants. We are out in public. When I date men, we stay in, cook dinner, watch Netflix. I never thought of myself as closeted, just discreet. Shit. I have no idea if I’m embarrassed or not.”

Sherlock didn’t offer any insight; he allowed John to drive and to reflect. He interrupted once to ask John to stop at the grocery store for food for dinner. John stayed in the car¸ barely registering that Sherlock had left and returned.           

When John pulled into Sherlock’s driveway, he turned to his friend, who quietly gathered the plastic grocery bags before he opened the Jetta’s door. “Thank you,” he put his hand on Sherlock’s arm to hold him in the car for another moment. The hitch in his own breath shocked him. 

Sherlock Holmes was the most caustic, imperious man he had ever met. Ever. But he was intelligent, open with his feelings and beliefs, and by God, he was beautiful. His features were like the Statue of David.  Those chiseled cheekbones, the curls, but really, those lips. The Cupid’s bow…dammit the mouth was moving, and John wasn’t listening.           

“For what, John?”          

“Just for…being quiet. Letting me tear this apart and try to put it back together, to make sense of it.”           

“I don’t have friends John,” Sherlock said. “I’m told I’m an unpleasant, rude, obnoxious arsehole. For some reason, you don’t mind being around me, and for some reason, I enjoy your company also. I believe that makes us…friends. And friends help friends. Carry boxes, haul furniture, even wrestle with their own perceptions. You would do the same for me.”           

With that, Sherlock grabbed the plastic sacks and headed through the garage and into the kitchen to put the food away.          

‘Friends.’ John rolled the word around in mouth, trying it out. He knew people, colleagues from school and the University, but he had only considered Mary his friend. Since she broke off the engagement, even that friend was gone. ‘Sherlock Holmes is my friend,’ he said. Yeah. That sounded right.

Over dinner they agreed that whatever was in the storage facility in Tallahassee could wait until at least Christmas. By that point, John would either need the furniture for his new flat or would be comfortable enough in Sherlock’s house to shed those items. Postponing the trip freed up Sunday and Monday (a day off for Columbus Day) to clean the classroom, decorate and possibly have time left over to relax.          

They stayed up late Saturday arguing the merits of everything. London theatre versus Broadway. Football (British) versus Football (American).  They even argued about which Star Trek series was the best (they both agreed on Deep Space Nine, which shocked both of them into silence).  As John headed to his new room to sleep, they decided they would spend the afternoon at the middle school organizing the Chorus room.

“Good night friend,” John said to Sherlock, without hesitation.

 “Good night to you also,” Sherlock answered.  “…friend.” 

\----           

Within an hour of arriving at the middle school Sunday morning, John knew two things unequivocally: he was going to kill Sherlock and he would not regret it.

“Sherlock Holmes! Go to your classroom. Go to your house. Just get OUT of this room. I will clean it myself, without your help, because you are NO help at all.”

 “John, you are quite stubborn for an educated man…”           

“Admit for once that you don’t know everything. You don’t know anything about music or what it takes to teach music to students. I NEED the area in front of the mirror open, not cluttered with desks. We do NOT need desks in a chorus class.”          

“Very well John. I will leave you to your…supposed organizing.”          

“I HAVE taught before you know,” John yelled to the fading sound of Sherlock’s wingtip heels up the sidewalk. Who wears a suit to clean a class room.  Posh arse.           

And he laughed. Out loud. Oh that man pissed him off, but it was okay. It almost felt like a best mate.           

John washed the windows and the wall mirror with the ballet barre. He wiped down the window sills, hung posters with gummy tak and tried to make the room his. Singing every Beatles song he knew helped the time pass quickly. The poster board with the class rules went up last, in the top corner of the mirror. John sang in his clear baritone,         

             

          _**Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away…**_ _ **Now it looks as though they’re here to stay…**_

 

The sweet sound of a violin drifted into his room, playing “Yesterday.” That must be what made me think of it, John thought. He locked the classroom and followed the music.  Standing outside the open door, John devoured the stunning music and when it ended, John approached the door.         

“Fucking Sherlock Holmes. I should have realized it would be you.” John laughed at his friend standing in his classroom, the violin still under his chin, looking guilty, as if he had been caught doing something illicit.          

“I _do_ know something about music, John.  For many years I thought I would spend my life with it.”         

“I’m sorry I was nasty before,” John said wedging himself into one of the student desk chairs.           

Sherlock packed away the violin and as he locked it into his closet, he said, “That is very kind of you. People don’t usually apologize to me.”           

“That’s because you’re a git. Come on. Let’s go back to your house, and I’ll cook dinner.”         

“It’s your house too, John. You live there now.” They stopped at the Chorus room so Sherlock could appreciate John’s awesome decorating skills. The class rules poster dangled by one corner on the mirror.  Sherlock raised an eyebrow and said, “Let’s hope that is not a harbinger of things to come.”          

John punched his arm, called him a rude name, and they headed home.

Through dinner and the next day, Sherlock and John settled into a routine of companionable silence punctuated by song or argument. John set up his electric piano in the lounge and performed for Sherlock who sometimes sang, but most often criticized the tempo, the phrasing, and occasionally, John’s vocals.          

No matter what Sherlock said, John laughed.        

Sherlock liked that. He thought John’s smile was the brightest thing he’d ever seen. It made him smile, then laugh. And this feeling in his stomach…a giggle bubbling up. From his stomach?       

“I said, do you want a cup of tea?” John said, tapping Sherlock’s shoulder to get his attention as he walked to the kitchen.          

“You’ll make me a cuppa?”

John stopped and looked at Sherlock. “I’m making one for me. Of course I’ll make one for you. Hasn’t any one done that for you?” He wanted to laugh but he was afraid to.          

Sherlock stared at the essay he was grading, red pen cocked in his right hand. “Not in a long time, John.”          

“Consider it done. Cream and sugar?”          

“Just cream,” Sherlock said, and wrote **Good** on top of the essay. On second thought, he added **Job** and an exclamation point.  **Good Job!**

 ----

Dinner, telly, dishes. Sherlock ironed a suit shirt for Tuesday. John unpacked the remainder of his clothes, hanging them his bedroom closet.  Wrinkled polo shirts, wrinkled khaki pants. Jeans.  One black suit for performances. One white dress shirt for the suit. If he continued living with Sherlock, he was definitely going to have to get better quality clothing.         

He chose a navy blue polo shirt and tan khaki pants for his first day at JAMMS. Conservative yet casual. Hanging them in the bathroom (the steam will help with the wrinkles, he hoped), John brushed his teeth and slid into the queen sized bed. He called out a good night and heard a mumbled response. Dr. John Watson, newest Choral Director at JAMMS, fell asleep before his head hit the pillow.


	4. Sweeties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's first month at JAMMS ends better than he could have hoped, especially living with his new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any words or characters you recognize do not belong to me, but to Hartswood/BBC. Obviously, any characters or references to the Harry Potter world belong to JKR. (see what I did there?)
> 
> see the end notes for explanation of specific musical terms
> 
> World's Best Beta: 221btls. You're all jealous. admit it.

John’s first week back in the classroom passed in a flurry of faces, names, and questions about England, interspersed with dreadful impressions of John’s accent.

“I'm not used to this after being in grad school for years! Thank God it’s a short week,” John said, pulling a chair up to Sherlock’s desk during their lunch break. John opened his lunch sack--it was too healthy: red grapes, carrots, peanut butter, pretzel sticks.  “What IS this? It’s like rabbit food meets toddler!”

“When I make lunch, I will make two of everything,” Sherlock said as he unpacked his lunch.  Opening his squirt-top water bottle, he raised an eyebrow and added, “You can attend to the lunches if you prefer. Or we have a cafeteria, if you do not mind swimming upstream against the students for high sodium, low taste, fried food.”  He bit into a grape, which spurted juice at John, as if to say the decision was so obvious, even Dr. Watson should see it.

John wiped grape juice off his face, and Sherlock’s smile slipped around the mouth of the water bottle. 

“Don’t squirt that thing at me, too!” John pointed to the water bottle.

Except, at that moment, each man pictured much less innocent things squirting. The Tick. Tick. Tick. of the wall clock’s second blasted the silence in the room as they stared at each other. A snicker exploded from Sherlock and John's high pitched giggle sealed their fate.     

"Are you ok, Mr. Holmes?” the girl John referred to as Sobbing Siobhan poked her head into the room, looking shocked and confused at the sounds coming from her history teacher.

“It’s okay Siobhan; go to your class.” That this other man knew who she was confused Siobhan more. She left quickly.  

“That poor girl.  You have scarred her AGAIN,” John said, taking a carrot and offering some to Sherlock who’d finished his.

“Good thing she didn’t see you sucking that carrot like  _that,_ ” Sherlock smirked at John, who held a carrot between his lips while using both hands to close the tetchy storage container. 

Shocked, John spit the carrot out and Sherlock’s giggle didn’t help John stop laughing.           

They celebrated with dinner at Angelo’s, which was far more food than either had ordered or could eat. John fell asleep in the Jag on the way home with his head tilted and resting on the window. Sherlock woke him gently when he parked the car.          

“Christ, that’s mortifying. I can’t even stay awake past 8?” he laughed as they headed inside. “Will you make me a cup of tea? I have to wake up and work on tomorrow’s lessons.” John disappeared into his room, leaving his work backpack on the couch in the lounge.

Sherlock brewed the water in a kettle for a proper cup of British tea and left it black for John, who was taking an inordinate amount of time returning. He set the cup on the end table next to John’s bag and returned to the kitchen to fix his own.

“Thanks!” John called to Sherlock, who was searching the kitchen cabinets for biscuits or candy.

“Aha!” Sherlock found a 100-calorie pack of chocolate chip cookies wedged behind a dusty maple syrup bottle. He came into the lounge precariously balancing his tea, the sticky cookie pack and his overstuffed briefcase. When he sat in his favorite chair (the one with arms wide enough to accommodate stacks of student papers), he looked up to ask John about his tea. 

John sat on the couch, with his feet propped on the coffee table, computer in his lap. Wearing only a bathrobe. Hair still wet from a shower. Striped towel draped around his neck. Sherlock lost his ability to speak. To think. That wasn’t exactly true. He could think fine. But it wasn’t about tea. It was about a doctor. On the couch. Possibly not wearing a robe.

“Sherlock? Are you ok? That’s getting a bit scary now…” As John moved the computer off of his lap and shifted his legs, the robe slipped open, showing more of his tan, muscular thigh.

“Yes, yes. Yes. Your tea. How is your tea.”

“It’s fine. Good. Thank you.” And John went back to typing up his solfege* handout for the next day’s lesson. 

 Sherlock struggled with his exams, leaning against one arm of the chair, then the other, trying to settle himself. Finally he gave up trying to concentrate with John on the couch in that robe that had fallen open over his legs. Sherlock excused himself as soon as he gulped down his tea and closed himself in his bedroom. A minute later, John swore he heard the click of the door’s lock.

The next morning John found a note from Sherlock taped to the microwave saying he’d left early. John decided to walk the half mile; school was across the street and through the park’s playground. The air was light and refreshing. He’d catch up with Sherlock at lunch.

John unlocked the Chorus room, still amused by his “Abandon Mariah All Ye Who Enter Here” sign (God, he hated that style of singing. Hit the damn note, don’t slide into it and no need to sing a scale or three before ending it). Before his bag hit the desk, three zealous students surrounded him, offering help. He sent one with the handout to the office for copies. One grabbed tape to re-hang (again!) the class rules poster that dangled from the mirror. The third was his now favorite 6th grader Sobbing Siobhan, who whispered, “Were you and Mr. Holmes okay yesterday?”

“Yes Siobhan. We were just laughing.”

“I’ve never seen him laugh. Ever.” Still whispering, her expression shifted from fear to shock. “Was it--something evil?”

 “Siobhan! Mr. Holmes is nice. We laugh a lot together.”

Sean returned with the copies. Hudson ensured the poster would never fall again; with the amount of tape she used it was likely to outlast the cockroaches in the Apocalypse.

 Faintly, John heard Sherlock’s violin through the chatter of preteen gossip and giggly shrieks. The soft notes of “Let it Be” touched John’s soul before his brain; it sounded plaintive, as if Sherlock were speaking through the music. John decided to text Sherlock, but as he pulled out his phone, the warning bell rang and students streamed through his door.  It was time to go and be Dr. Watson.

 The first four classes flew by with curt, corrective statements. Stand tall. Hands in front. No talking. Hands to yourself. Stand tall. God, it was like herding kittens. When the bell ended period four, John reached for his lunch sack and realized he’d left the house without making lunch.

 “Going to the cafeteria?” Miss Hooper asked, opening the door that separated the Drama room from his. “I can show you how to cut the student line and get the best slices of pizza! I’m Molly, by the way. I have a few things I want to run by you!” and Molly Hooper spoke nonstop  to the cafeteria, through the pizza line, through the checkout line and to Sherlock’s classroom.

“Whose room is this?” she asked, as John knocked on the locked door. (‘Doors were kept locked at all times because JAMMS is committed to total student safety.’ He could hear Ms. Adler’s voice echoing in his head) 

John started to answer, but Sherlock walked up behind them carrying a tall stack of worksheets still warm from the copy machine. “Are you having a stand up picnic or would you like to come inside?”  He unlocked the classroom and John held the door as Molly walked through. 

“Hello Sherlock,” Molly said as she easily sat at a student desk. 

“Hello, um--” Sherlock could not pull her name from his memory. Molly picked at the crust of her pizza,  trying to avoid the awkwardness.

“Sherlock, Molly was explaining to me about some exciting opportunity her Drama students have if she could find more help from faculty members.” 

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose.

“I was thinking we could help her with her Thespian troupe. She’s holding student auditions for the District tournament next week. Since Musical Theater is one of the categories, we can help choose the students who’ll go.” John caught Molly’s enthusiasm, but Sherlock wasn’t convinced.

“You cannot be saying we have children at this school who could compete artistically?” 

“Sherlock! Stop that!” Molly Hooper pointed her finger at his chest as she scolded him.         

Sherlock looked at John for guidance. He’d said something wrong, judging from Molly’s tone. “Some of our students have great talent. I’ve only been here a few days and I can tell you that. Siobhan, the 6th grader who left your class in tears last week? She has a beautiful voice. Her brother is also good.”           

“Hrmpf. But they fail to understand the most basic of writing…”           

“School is more than History and tests, Sherlock,” Molly sniffed. People who dismissed the Arts really, really pissed her off.

John committed to helping with the Thespian auditions at the beginning of November. Sherlock wouldn’t commit, and Molly dashed out to get to her classroom before the passing-time rush.          

“Sherlock,” John hesitated. “Are you alright?”

 “Yes, fine. Why?” Sherlock answered but never looked up from the stack of worksheets he’d waded through while Molly and John ate.          

“You walked out last night and even this morning, you didn’t wait around. I mean, you don’t have to wait for me but…” his voice trailed off.           

“Just grading papers, John.” Sherlock didn’t look up or respond as John left. He couldn’t tell John how distracting the robe had been. How distracting John was becoming.

“How was day 2?” Molly asked, walking through the adjoining door at the end of the day.          

“Good. Better behavior. We sang ‘Mary Had A Little Lamb’ except we changed it to JAMMS Had a Little Lamb,” he said. “I’m teaching them solfege, which will make sight reading a breeze. But we’ll have to cancel the Halloween concert.”           

“It was nice having lunch with you and Sherlock. Have you been friends long? I mean, did you and Sherlock know each other back home?”          

What was she fishing for? John wondered.          

“We met here last week. He figured everything out about me in 15 seconds… ”           

“Yeah. He does that,” Molly interrupted.          

“…and somehow, we wound up at dinner and because I don’t have a place to live, he is renting me a room.” That seemed an easier way to explain it to her.           

“Oh. My. God. How is that? Is it terrible?” She said, both horrified and interested.           

“He’s nice. Quiet. Opinionated. Singularly focused. So caught up in his own mind that he forgets other people exist.”           

“Are you and Sherlock…together?” Molly asked, hesitantly. The poor woman. Even if Sherlock weren’t gay, she would never catch his interest.

“No, and he’s married to his work,” John said with air quotes.

When Molly left, John flipped on the electric piano and played an original composition he had intended to play for Mary at their wedding. It wasn't complete and he’d struggled with since she ended the engagement.          

“I must go to the grocery store,” a deep voice said when the piano and voice stopped. “Would you like to go?”        

John wanted to ask what had changed, if Sherlock were okay. However, by the time John grabbed his backpack, Sherlock was engrossed again in his phone. It wasn’t necessary. They were back to normal.  Laughing, joking, arguing, singing. Sherlock kept the Jag’s radio set to either Sirius/XM’s Broadway station or classical music. When John pushed one of the preset buttons, Sherlock howled NO!

“The 80s?! HAHAHAHA Your guilty pleasure is 80s music?”          

Sherlock hung his head in shame as John sang along with “ _Billie Jean is not my lover…”_

\-----           

Slowly, they settled into a routine. Sherlock ignored John in his bathrobe as best as he could. Some days more successfully than others. John ignored Sherlock’s fingers when they slid over and lingered when John handed him a cup of tea. After all, work entanglements were bad form. John cooked dinner; Sherlock made lunch.  Some days Molly sat with them at lunch, and occasionally they dragged Sherlock to the teachers’ room for camaraderie.           

Molly broached the subject of Halloween. “Every year we get dressed up. What are you going to be?”

Sherlock laughed derisively. “Our respect as teachers is tenuous enough. We do not need to encourage the students to laugh at us.”         

“The kids will love it, and it helps them relate to us better,” John argued. But no matter what he suggested, Sherlock remained unmoved.         

“Forget you, Sherlock. Molly, want to do a couples’ costume, like, Antony and Cleopatra? Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers?”          

“Tweedledum and Tweedledee?” Sherlock suggested helpfully, trying to look innocent.       

John almost spit his water out, and Molly flipped off Sherlock.           

“How about Ron and Hermione?," she said.  "I can make my hair big and wavy, and we can wear black robes and--”       

“Perfect!” John said. “But Ron? not Harry?”          

Sherlock stared confused, and Molly said, “Harry Potter. The books? The movies? The cultural phenomena?” No response.           

“Sherlock should be Filch! Or Voldemort!” Molly said, laughing.         

“Snape! Snape! Severus Snape!” John sang.        

Sherlock tidied his lunch and graded tests. Not a single paper received a red “Good Job!” that day. Love it!

 ----        

A typical Florida Halloween, the Friday forecast called for clear skies and a high of 85. Few students wore costumes, even though they could receive extra credit. Teacher costumes varied from clowns to pajamas. John picked up Molly at her house that morning, so they could make their appearance together. When they walked in as ginger Ron (single wear hair dye!) and bushy haired Hermione in their black Hogwarts’ robes, the front office exploded in applause.         

“Professor Snape!” one student yelled out, as John and Molly headed to their class rooms.         

“No, we’re Ron and Hermione!”          

“Ob-viously,” a voice said behind them.        

Sherlock stood in black robes, his black curls combed out and gelled flat to his head, and make up to dull his complexion. Molly ran and hugged Sherlock in front of all the students.         

“Miss Granger,” Snape said. “Please attempt to restrain yourself and your--Weasley.”          

Molly whispered, “You’re the best, Sherlock!” John smiled, his face hurting from the joy. After two weeks, JAMMS felt like home.           

That night, John convinced Sherlock to sit in webbed lawn chairs in the front yard and pass out candy to the trick-or-treaters.          

“Where did you learn it, Sherlock? You didn’t know anything about Harry Potter.”          

“Yes, well, I’m a fairly quick reader…”         

“Fibbing, Sherlock.”          

“I had already…”           

“I can tell when you’re fibbing.”           

“Ok. I learned it on YouTube. I searched Snape! Snape! Severus Snape.” He hadn’t even finished before John laughed so hard his chair fell sideways spilling John on the lawn.         

A few students, both chorus and history, saw John and Sherlock together at 221 Baker Street. They quickly realized their favorite teacher lived with the cranky teacher.  That would cause plenty of gossip at school.           

By 9pm, they folded their chairs, blew out the candle in the pumpkin, and turned off the porch light. John and Sherlock decided they would deal with the gossip truthfully on Monday.           

Sherlock pulled two beers from the refrigerator, and John surprised him with a bag of Haribo Star Mix sweeties he’d bought as a treat.           

John drank beer and tried to wash the red dye out of his hair. Sherlock didn’t share his Haribo sweeties and complained as the wig glue pulled at his skin.          

When they were themselves again, John sat Sherlock on the couch in the lounge and forced him to watch “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” Sherlock complained the entire time, but shared his gummi sweeties while sipping an extra beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solfege: a pattern for music notes, and each note is assigned a hand sign. Its purpose is to help students site read better.  
> http://www2.hoover.k12.al.us/schools/hhs/faculty/cshelton/Pages/IntrotoSolfege.aspx


	5. Enlightenment and Entanglement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who would teach their child that "faggot" was OK to say? They deal with the fallout from Halloween but maybe things will be more than OK.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you 5ever to 221btls, who loves me enough to say, errrr the ending sucked...and made me write a kickass one :)
> 
> The song Sean and Siobhan sing is from the amazing musical, Les Miserables, by Alain Boublil and Jean-Marc Natel (French lyrics)  
> Herbert Kretzmer (English adaptation).
> 
> I double pinky promise. We'll earn our M rating in the next chapter. O.o

Sitting in lawn chairs on Halloween night handing out candy, Sherlock and John discovered just how many of their students lived in this neighborhood. They hadn’t thought about it because they _assumed_ it was a non-issue. Two friends sharing a house. But they heard the gasps of surprise as families saw the teachers dressed as Ron Weasley and Professor Snape teasing trick-or-treaters while they handed out their goodies. For many parents, this was their introduction to the new Chorus director.

They knew then that they’d have to address the inevitable questions about them living together. Questions about them being  _together_.   
  
“A unified front, John. That is what this requires. We must be prepared to state what we decide and then quash any questions or discussions,” Sherlock said, before he dove into the deep end of pool the next day. Unusually warm weather kept the pool water temperate enough to enjoy on the first day of November.  
  
John stood in the shallow end, leaning against the pool wall, waiting for Sherlock to surface. His long legs and strong arms propelled Sherlock the remaining distance across the pool, and he popped up next to John.

“Tell them we do share a house. That I moved from FSU to take this job, and I hadn’t found a flat yet. That you had an extra room you were willing to rent.”  
  
“Exactly. Those are the relevant details. Do not allow them time to question. Begin your lesson." Sherlock turned around, adjusted his goggles and pushed off to swim another complete lap.  
  
John watched him slice through the water, swimming the crawl away and the backstroke on the return to the shallow end. Sherlock's swimming accounted for that lean, cut body. This would be the last of his 50 laps for today. As Sherlock left the pool to grab a towel, John stared at his arse in those ridiculous knee-length board shorts—the blue pair with the red crabs. They were shapeless and old and should not have done a single thing to accentuate Sherlock's arse. So, why couldn’t John stop staring?  
  
He waited for Sherlock to go inside before he even attempted to get out of the pool. His swim trunks couldn’t lie.  
  
They parsed their statements the rest of the weekend and when Monday morning dawned a beautiful clear day in spite of the hurricane possibility, John knew he could face whatever the kids attempted to dish out.   
  
Showered and dressed for school, John joined Sherlock on the pool deck for coffee and toast. 

"We may have to rethink our strategy," Sherlock said without looking up from his phone. John caught the specific Facebook blue on the screen, and Sherlock’s emptied coffee cup.   
   
"What are you talking about? How long have you been up?!" John spread raspberry jam on his toast and licked the spot of jelly from his left thumb. "Is that Facebook? Do you even have a Facebook?!"  
  
Sherlock held his palm up to silence John’s questions and handed his phone over. "History teaches us to keep our friends close and our enemies closer. I have created an account under a false name. Sadly, too many of our students have their page unlocked for anyone to see.”   
  
“Yes, especially creepers,” John razzed him, but as he reached for the phone he nearly knocked the orange juice pitcher over into Sherlock’s lap. John saved the trim fitting gray suit from a soaking. He righted the pitcher and moved it to the center of the table.  “Do you always wear suits to school?”  
  
“First of all, John, it's work. _We_ go to work. The children go to school. It's an important distinction so that we do not behave like children. Second, if we expect to be treated as professionals we must look and behave as such.”  
  
“You do have a point, especially about looking like professionals,” John agreed.  Sherlock raised an eyebrow and pointed his long slender finger at John's chest. John looked down-- raspberry jam stained his pale blue polo shirt.   
  
“Shit!” John laughed as he stood up and slid the shirt over his head. Sherlock stared at his sun-pinked bare chest. This is exactly why he avoided sharing living space, classroom space...even space in his life. People became--entangled. Entanglements became--messy.   
  
"What are you staring at?” John laughed, as he threw his shirt into the basket by the laundry room doorway and headed back toward his bedroom.  
  
Sherlock sat speechless. What were his options? To be honest or to lie about where he stared. Neither appealed to him; he regretted closing the discussion about relationships so quickly at Angelo’s weeks ago. Instead, Sherlock looked down at his phone and said, “Several of your students were agog at us being at the same house. One took it further. A student named Joey Moriarty?”  
  
John called from his room, “The name doesn't stand out but I'll find him today.” When he returned to the kitchen he wore a button up shirt and tie. Slightly wrinkled, the shirt was passable and more professional than the polo. “Picture?” John asked, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder and finishing the knot on his tie. His warm breath tickled Sherlock’s ear, sending pleasure down his spine. “Him? Huh. That surprises me. He seems likeable enough. Let's do what we planned. I'm sure that will be fine.”  
  
\-----  
  
Sherlock and John almost always headed to work together. Occasionally, they took separate cars if one had errands or a meeting, but John favored their time together, more surprised than most that he actually liked Sherlock’s personality. Plus, he created a morning “Rock Paper Scissors Lizard Jag” ritual to see who would drive the Jaguar.  
  
“You know, Sherlock,” John wheedled. “I  _did_ save your lap this morning. How about I drive as a reward?”  
  
“You  _caused_  the near mishap, might I remind you,” Sherlock snarked, but handed the keys over nonetheless.   
  
John sighed as he sank into the luxurious driver’s seat and drove the half-mile to school. When he parked, he looked to Sherlock and said, “We really should walk. I’m sure we waste more gas starting the car than driving here!”  
  
“Agreed. You walk tomorrow, and I will drive,” Sherlock laughed as he grabbed his briefcase and gently closed the door.  
  
They paid no attention to the stares from students and parents dropping them off at car line; unusual as it was, the Jag always drew attention.   
  
Caught up in conversation about the World Series as they walked through the parking lot, they failed to see the stares.   
  
“You two are the topic of the morning,” Molly Hooper said as she held the office door open for them. “Maybe you should have arrived separately.”   
  
“There is nothing untoward about our situation,” Sherlock said heatedly. “I won’t apologize.” Molly shrugged her shoulders and left for her room.  
   
"We share a house, not a bed. And even if we did," Sherlock lowered his voice, "and even if we were lovers, that is no one’s business but ours." Sherlock blushed. John didn't know if it were from anger or the thought of them as lovers, because he couldn’t deny that made  _him_  blush, too.

“You’re right of course, but don't forget we’re in part of the country that isn't as progressive about gay rights...”  
  
“Let's proceed as we planned. I will see you at lunch,” Sherlock said, but instead of heading to his classroom he veered to the office and dawdled over. He felt significantly less sure than he had presented to John.  
  
When John passed Sherlock's room, he texted him **_Good Luck Shezza!_** to make him laugh. As an afterthought he added a winky face and hit send.   
  
The gaggle of boys waiting in front of the Chorus room door suddenly quieted as John pushed through the crowd. He sighed and unlocked the door for period 1, Boys’ Chorus.    
  
“Gentlemen, get into your concert positions, please. I have an idea, and I think you’re going to love it. I just have to run it by the PTA and…”  
  
“Dr. Watson, can I ask you a question?” Sean asked as he raised his hand.  
  
“ _May_ I,and yes, go ahead,” John said, facing the boys who stood on the built in risers.

Sean pushed his glasses back up on his nose and hesitated. His neighbor surreptitiously elbowed him in the side to help him. “That was you handing out candy with Mr. Holmes Friday night, wasn’t it?”  
  
“Yes. I moved here from Tallahassee, and I didn’t have an apartment yet. Mr. Holmes offered to rent me a room in his home. We share the house. Now, back to music. On our first…”  
  
“So, you two live together?” the Elbow Boy-- _That_ was Joey Moriarty-- asked, almost gleefully.  
  
“Yes. As I said…”   
  
“Are you two ‘together’?” Joey asked with air quotes. The boys around him laughed nervously.  
  
“Inappropriate, Mr. Moriarty. Let’s move on to our lesson. Today we’re going to work on a descant, or a separate melody sung above the standard melody.”   
  
John wrote the definition on the board while he explained it. Too late he realized he never should have turned his back. The fake cough did nothing to hide the ‘faggot’ that someone said. And he knew exactly who.  
  
He turned around slowly to the class and brought his voice quiet and low. “Wildly inappropriate, and it will not happen again. All people are equal in this class, and if I find any one of you acting in a way that violates that, you and I, your parents and the principal will meet. And you can explain it to them.” John stared straight at Joey before he moved his eyes to the other boys in the class.   
  
At lunch, Sherlock checked his texts: **_Bad day_**.  _Skipping lunch. See you at home. JW_  
  
Sherlock repacked his lunch sack and sought John out.  He found him closed into his office with his head down on his desk.   
  
Sherlock tapped on the office window, and John motioned him inside. “That bad?”   
  
“Yes, wasn’t yours?”  
  
“No. I kept to our plan. Did you stray from it?” Sherlock asked, a slight reproach creeping into his tone.  
  
“Your young Mr. Moriarty is in my first period class. That was--yeah.  Really awesome. Faggot is his word of choice...” He hid his face in his palms.  
  
Sherlock unpacked John’s lunch; suddenly the salad and power bar seemed less appealing than when he packed them before breakfast.   
  
“Up,” Sherlock said. When John looked up, Sherlock said, “Come along. This situation requires messy carbs to make it right. Research shows…”  
  
Before John could turn to the clock, Sherlock said, “With 30 minutes for lunch and 5 for passing time, we will be fine if we leave now.” John smiled, a brilliant wide smile Sherlock hadn’t seen since Friday.  
  
John jabbed him on the shoulder and said, “Last one to the Jag is a rotten egg!” and ran for the parking lot.   
  
 ---  
  
Belly full of revolting French fries and bacon double cheeseburgers, they nearly rolled back just in time for the start of class.  John heard, “Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes” in unison from the students followed by an obnoxiously loud brrrraaaaap.   
  
‘Someone is going to pay for that burp!’ John thought as he walked toward the Media Center.   
  
“Oh my!” Sherlock said, shocked. “Please accept sincere apologies for my breach of etiquette!”  John’s belly laughed bounced off the walls of the courtyard.  
  
He was still laughing as he entered the Media Center and saw the Fall Book Fair set up for business. A parent association mom stood at the cash register at the empty book fair and called perkily, “Teachers receive a ten percent discount on purchases!”  
  
John decided at that moment to aggressively charm every parent he met. He held his hand out to the woman and said, “Dr. John Watson. I’m the new chorus teacher here.”  
  
She took his hand and drew him into a hug. “I have so wanted to meet you. My children talk about you all day!” She squeezed him one last time and stepped back to look at him. “You DO have a great accent!”  
  
“Thank you, Mrs…”  
  
“Hudson.  I’m Honey Hudson. Isn’t that a terrible name?” she laughed, her eyes dancing.  
  
“But Mrs. Hudson…?”  
  
“Is my mother-in-law. Two of my kids have you. Rory and Siobhan about think you hung the moon!”  
  
“Those are two great children, Mrs. Hudson. Talented, too! I’m looking forward to their Thespians audition.”  
  
“If the Parent-Teacher Association can help in any way with Thespians, please let me know. I’m the PTA president, the go-to gal, the--”  
  
John grabbed her hand and explained his idea to her: Would she be interested in having the chorus students sing at the next Parent-Teach Association meeting? 

“YES…but the meeting is Thursday evening at 6. Can you swing that?”

“I’ll offer extra credit,” John said. “My students can show off what they’ve learned and hopefully, you’ll get a bigger turn out for your meeting!”

“Genius! The kids ARE right about you. You are great for the school!” They exchanged email addresses to iron out the details.

Before John left, Mrs. Hudson said, “This is really forward, and feel free to say no. Nothing’s worse than being backed into a corner, but, if you don’t have any plans for Thanksgiving, we would love to have you celebrate with us. Mrs. Hudson will be there, too. And the kids said you share a house with Mr. Holmes. He’ll come too!” Honey said, assured the decision had already been made. 

“That would be lovely,” John smiled and hugged her. “American holidays are difficult. I always feel like a traitor when I celebrate them!”  
  
“Thanksgiving is about love and caring and sharing that with people you love. And food. And pie! It’s definitely about pie!” She laughed and turned to ring up a sale from a student who had browsed during their conversation.  
 

\-----

At the end of the day as Sherlock and John sat with their feet dangling in the pool water, they tallied up the day.  

"No one said anything to me directly, but I did hear a great deal of whispering that stopped as I walked closer," Sherlock admitted, sipping from his bottled water. The citronella candle on the table kept the mosquitos at bay and with the pool's interior lights on, Sherlock watched the water ripple as insects tried to alight. 

John held his tea mug in both hands, blowing across the top of it. "Did Lestrade come to chat with you today?" In the candle light he saw Sherlock shake his head. "So only the new hire. Typical intimidation by administration. He stopped by to chat after 6th period just to see how I was doing, see if I were settling in OK."

"That seems uncharacteristically interested of him."

"Yes, isn't it, though, after two weeks. He reminded me that the first year can be so difficult with parents' complaints and concerns and suggested I might want to keep a lower profile this year. So I’m wondering how many parents already called to complain about the two fag teachers." John set the mug down harder than he intended, and the hot tea sloshed onto his hand. 

"As I said this morning, John. We are not guilty and even if we were lovers, we are not violating any laws." He reached over and squeezed John's hand. Without thinking, John laced his fingers in his friend's. 

They sat a few minutes longer, watching the water ripple as the automatic vacuum travel around the pool’s walls. When Sherlock moved to stand up, John released his hand, feeling the loss of connection deeply. 

The hesitant reaching out for each other.  Taking comfort in space and touch. That entanglement was nice…very nice… Sherlock thought as he said good night and closed his bedroom door.  

\----

Although John required his Show Chorus students to attend, a surprising number of other students showed up for the impromptu PTA concert Wednesday evening with their parents in tow. John arranged them by voice type (sopranos thru basses) and quietly ran through the program with them. With the ten minute formal meeting out of the way, John introduced himself (he could hear the surprise at his accent and see smiles in the crowd) and his students.

Dressed in white shirts and black pants, the chorus looked good and sounded even better. They showed off their solfege skills, singing scales for parents. When they began their version of the familiar “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” some parents scoffed, obviously believing they were wasting tax dollars on this new teacher. However, it quickly switched to a round, each section coming in on cue.  Atop that, several sopranos took the descant and the audience quieted. When the basses finished their round, the parents applauded loudly. 

“Take your bow,” John said to them. As one, they bowed down and John said quietly, “Did I shine my shoes? Yes I did!” and motioned them back standing.  The students laughed as they stood back up. 

Honey Hudson reached John first. “OH. MY. GOD. That was amazing!”  John beamed. 

“Yes, it was quite,” the deep timbre could only belong to Sherlock, who had told John that under no circumstances would he attend, because school meetings incited him to violence. 

John shook his hand and mouthed, ‘Thank You’ to him for coming, before other parents pulled his attention. 

As the crowd thinned, John found Sherlock sitting on the bleachers, managing to look elegant. “A wonderful remedy to Monday, isn’t it?” John laughed, high from the brief performance. 

“Yes, it really is,” Sherlock said, but nudged his head in the direction of a small pocket of disgruntled parents. 

“Is that Joey Moriarty’s father in the middle? I’m guessing it is. Shit. He looks angry. Should I go over there?” John said, turning around to head over.

Sherlock grabbed his elbow. “It makes no sense to stir the hornet’s nest, John. We may have to one day. For now, discretion is the better part of valor.” 

“Let’s go home,” John said, the wind out of his sails. “It _is_ 2014 right? People can live where they want?” Sherlock walked with him, silently agreeing.

 

\--- 

A week later after school, John set up the Chorus room for the Thespian auditions. He and Molly agreed the familiar setting would produce better auditions.   

"Who is our third?" John asked looking at the empty seat at the judges’ table.  

"Sally, the band teacher. You've met her, right?" John nodded but he regretted the choice. He didn’t like Sally Donovan; she was sarcastic and nasty to teachers and students alike. 

Molly's email pinged on her phone; "Sally can't make it. We don't really need her but it is good to have a tie breaker." 

As they waited for stragglers for the drama club meeting, the two teachers discussed who had come to them for suggestions or help. Some were good and would get better with coaching. Some were dreadful and no amount of coaching would ever help. That part they whispered. 

Molly stood up to grab the club’s attention. “Our district Thespians tournament is mid-December. We’re picking our team from these auditions. That gives us about 6 weeks to plan and polish. Dr. Watson and I will be happy to work with you as often as you like. The key here, friends, is as often as YOU like.”  They listened without much fidgeting.

“A Superior rating at Districts, and you go to states,” John said. “Let’s ALL shoot for that! Up first, Hudson.  What do you have for us?” 

They belly laughed at Hudson’s monologue about the Old Woman Who Lived In a Shoe. The perky 6th grader transformed herself into a cranky mother exhausted from chasing children around the shoe house. “Definitely in,” John whispered to Molly, who nodded as she wiped her tears.

The boy who chose the “Pandorica” monologue from Doctor Who blew them away, but television scripts were no-go. “We’ll find a perfect piece for you,” Molly said. 

Sean and Siobhan took to the performance area, with Sean on the floor and Siobhan’s lying with her head on his leg. Hudson started the song file, and the two performed Eponine’s dying song with Marius from “Les Miserables.”

**So don't you fret, M'sieur Marius _(Hush-a-bye, dear Eponine)_**   
**I don't feel any pain _(You won't feel any pain)_**   
**A little fall of rain _(A little fall of rain)_**   
**Can hardly hurt me now _(Can hardly hurt you now)  
_ That's all I need to know-- And you will keep me safe _(I will stay with you)_**   
**And you will keep me close _(Till you are sleeping)_**   
  
**And rain… will make the flowers…grow.**

The students who weren’t outright sobbing hid their tears behind their hands or tissues. Molly dabbed at her eyes, and John looked away toward the door, willing the tears to stay put. Sherlock stood in the doorway, posture straight but eyes glassy. He put his briefcase on the floor and applauded. Heads turned. Jaws dropped. But everyone joined in.

Sean and Siobhan popped up off the floor and smiled at Mr. Holmes, who didn’t seem quite as scary as he used to. “We could use one more judge. Join us?” Molly asked.  Sherlock made his way to the table and took the empty seat. 

“I ah, understand now what you mean about talent,” Sherlock grudgingly admitted.

The Spongebob monologue, the scene from Frankenstein with the monster dragging his body across the stage, and several singers wouldn’t make the cut. If the students showed interest, Molly could possibly find better choices. 

“We’ll have the list up tomorrow or Friday,” John announced. “Thank you to everyone who came today.”

As the students filed out, Molly asked, “Should we choose now or tomorrow morning?” 

“Want to come back to ours? It’s literally across the street. We can sit on the pool deck and have a drink, because I think I need one after that,” John said.

Molly quickly agreed, but Sherlock remained quiet. As Sherlock started the car, John asked, “Are you okay? Is it alright that I asked Molly over?”

“Yes, of course,” he answered, waving away John’s concerns. “It’s just…different… seeing the students outside of my class room. I never would have known that Siobhan or Sean had that talent if you hadn’t shown it to me.”

Over iced teas on the pool deck (“Oh. You meant _this_ kind of drink,” Molly said, disappointed.), they rehashed the auditions. ‘The Old Lady’ was in. ‘Shakespeare Tragedies in 30 seconds or Less’ was in. A few students showed promise but needed better pieces. 

“Sean and Siobhan?” Molly asked.

“It was good,” John said, “and yes, we all cried. But I’m concerned about two things. One, I think it’s been done to death. Will judges just roll their eyes? And two, I think it’s too old for them.”

“Good points,” Molly said. “What do you think, Sherlock?”

He put down the stack of essays he had been grading and tapped his red pen on them. “What are some options?”

“Something classic, like from _Carousel_?” Molly suggested

“What about at the end of _Spring Awakening_ ,” John offered. “ ‘I Don’t Do Sadness;’ Siobhan could sing the ‘Blue Wind’ section.”

“Too mature for them,” Sherlock cut John short, but their eyes met, remembering their impromptu duet the day they met.

“ ‘Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better’?” Molly proposed. Both John and Sherlock agreed that judges would roll their eyes at the tried and true. “Pony up, Sherlock. Suggest something.”

He weighed whether to suggest it, and then said, “ ‘You’re the One That I Want,’ from _Grease_. It’s not original to the play, but it was included in the 2007 revival, so I believe it would fall within the regulations.”

“You’re the one that I want!” Molly sang and John answered, “Oo Oo Oooo.”

“Brilliant, Sherlock! But will a sister sing that with her brother?” and John dissolved into laughter again.

In the end, their list included ten solid performances, with some choices made on the student’s reliability and determination rather than talent. They decided that students needed to practice with Molly and also with John, if necessary. Sherlock also offered to work with staging and movement.

“I do have a background in dance,” Sherlock snarked when Molly hesitated. “I love dancing. I’ve _always_ loved it." 

Before long, all three laughed themselves out and drank iced tea and ate what they scrounged from the refrigerator. When Molly left at midnight, John and Sherlock sat on the couch in the lounge to watch the next Harry Potter movie. Sherlock stretched out his legs, placing his feet in John’s lap as the opening credits ran. Before the Hogwarts’ Express left Platform 9 ¾, both men had fallen deeply asleep.

Sherlock woke before dawn, his arm throbbing from laying in the same position all night. As he shook the sleep off, he realized-- this wasn’t his bedroom. Or his bed. They had fallen asleep on the lounge couch. John cuddled in tight against his back, their arms entwined, their legs entangled. Sherlock took a moment to enjoy the warmth and strength of John. The feeling of being together.

Sherlock disentangled himself carefully, making sure not to wake his doctor; he slipped off the couch and quietly crept to his bedroom.

 

 


	6. Giving Thanks for Love(rs)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a nice Thanksgiving celebration with the Hudson family, John and Sherlock are more aware of the Moriartys. When Sally Donovan backs out of the Thespian tournament, Sherlock takes her place. 
> 
> **finally earning the E rating! **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *All characters and words you recognize belong to Hartswood  
> *You are all jealous that you don't have the world's best beta, @221btls!! You stinkin' rock!
> 
> *The song, "You're the One That I Want" is from the 2007 revival of Grease

With the Thespians tournament the week after Thanksgiving, Molly, John and Sherlock agreed to coach students after school. Siobhan and Sean, who desperately wanted to make it to the all-state tournament, never missed a session and the day before the holiday was no different.  

According to Sherlock, Sean and Siobhan's duet lacked stage presence; they needed some zip in their _Grease_ routine.   
  
“Sing  _to_ each other. _Look_ at each other. Come on! Lean in with your bodies,” Sherlock told them again. At a loss, they tried but failed too many times for his thin patience.  
  
“Oh, for God’s sake. Miss Hooper. Come here, please. Help me show them.”  
  
“Not gonna lie Sherlock; I’m nervous about singing in front of you,” she laughed and stayed put.   
  
“You can’t be worse than the caterwauling I hear from John’s shower every morning,” Sherlock snarked. The kids laughed, and he immediately regretted sharing that information.   
  
“What are you laughing about?” John asked as he came into the classroom holding his backpack and a handful of papers. “Is it time to sing?"  Why were they laughing even harder?  
  
“Never mind, John,” Sherlock said, grabbing John by the elbow and placing him directly in front of Sherlock. “You be Sandy. I’ll be Danny. Let’s dance.”  
  
Before John could balk, Molly started the CD player and “You’re the One That I Want” filled the room. Sherlock shimmied in toward John, who leaned away--  
  
_I got chills…they’re multiplyin’…and I’m losing control…_

 _‘cause the power you’re supplying…it’s electrifying._  
  
‘FuckfuckfuckfuuckfuckthisisNOTgood,’ John's mind formed one thought as Sherlock’s blue eyes stared into his.   
  
Neither man was prepared for John to sing Sandy’s line:   
  
           _You better shape up, ‘cause I need a man…_

 _and my heart is set on you…_  
  
Sherlock barely waited for John to finish before he motioned for Molly to cut the music. “Siobhan and Sean, please work toward that movement.”  
  
Missing any innuendo, they attempted the choreography, stumbling but successful.    
  
John, who’d almost jumped getting away, ignored Sherlock and gathered his quizzes into a haphazard stack. He shoved them roughly into his backpack and said, “I forgot I have a phone conference in a few minutes. I’m going to walk home and--” He left the room without finishing.  
  
“Ok y’all, let’s call it quits here. Enjoy your Thanksgiving kids,” Molly said, wrapping up the power cord and stashing the CD player in the closet. Sherlock left abruptly without any word.

When Sherlock arrived home, the front door was still locked. He searched the house for John who should have been home already. No sign of John anywhere. Not in his room. Sherlock even peeked into the en suite bathroom. No John.  
  
“Why aren’t you home?” Sherlock texted. No response. While he waited for an answer, Sherlock removed his work clothes and hung up his suit, carefully aligning the pants along the front crease.

Computing at highest speed all day and many times all night, Sherlock’s brain needed downtime. Exercise proved the easiest way to that end. The pool water in mid-November was simply too cold for him to swim his 50 laps; biking or running remained options. With nothing pressing, he decided on a run.   
  
Still warm enough to run in shorts and a t-shirt. A slow jog to warm up, and by the time Sherlock reached the end of Baker Street and crossed to the park’s trail, he ran full out.   
The trail led behind the middle school and high school then back around to the park. The one mile circuit took him just over 7 minutes the first time. The third time he slowed down when he saw a familiar figure walking toward the neighborhood.  
  
He slowed down to a walk and came side by side with John who didn’t stop.   
  
“Hey,” he said to Sherlock, as he took his ear buds out. “How was your run?”  
  
“Just about 21 minutes for three miles. How was your conference?”  
  
“Yeah. It was okay.” John said as they crossed onto Baker Street.   
  
“Didn’t actually have a phone conference?”

“Nope. Just leave it, ok Sherlock?” John re-shouldered his backpack and put his ear buds back in.    
  
Sherlock resumed running, tallying another two miles before he walked home from the park. Sweaty and thirsty, he needed water, a shower, and something to eat. Possibly not in that order. And to talk some sense into John Watson.   
  
As he neared the house, Sherlock heard the piano, and John singing angrily but passionately. He stood and listened before opening the door.  
   
  
_Just don’t give up; I’m workin’ it out;_  
_Please don’t give in I won’t let you down._  
_It messed me up, need a second to breathe_  
_Just keep comin’ around_  
_Hey, whataya want from me._  
  
   
Sherlock tried not to interrupt, but the piano stuttered with the squeak of the front door hinges. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the skylights onto John at the piano; Sherlock could see the long, golden eye lashes as John played, his eyes closed, pouring himself into the emotion of the song. He was beauty and passion, in the span of his fingers on the keyboard and the way his head moved with the music. Even in the midst of his anger.  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John stopped playing and cut him off. “After all we went through and the rumors just stopped. How could you not know that would be the line I sang? You know everything, Sherlock. Every. Fucking. Thing. How did you not realize.”  
  
Before Sherlock could answer, John began playing. Loudly. To drown out any possible response. Sherlock thought seriously about yelling over the piano, but instead retrieved his violin from his car. Perhaps he could apologize to John through music. He picked up the song John played; with his years of lessons, he could follow the tune easily.

John’s anger melted with the warmth and beauty of the violin. He allowed Sherlock to take the lead, composing as he played. He’d moved closer to John and stood in the sunlight. John stopped playing and simply watched his friend; he looked beautiful, bathed in the glow of the sun, the bow moving sensuously and his long delicate fingers caressing the strings.  
  
Sherlock spoke to John through his music--the sorrow of the past and hope for the future. The melody ran slow and sweet, then climbed higher and higher. The crash came quickly, diving low and dissonant, but was short lived and returned to the slow, sweet melody. The music spoke a promise of love, not always easy, but _always_.

John heard it all. What was and what could be. He had to tell Sherlock that entanglements be damned, he was falling in love. John would take a leap of faith as he had when he left England. As he had when he left his job to start graduate school.

“Sherlock, I—“  
  
But Sherlock and the violin were gone. When he returned, he held paper plates with two peanut butter and raspberry jam sandwiches and two glasses of milk.   
  
“Happy Thanksgiving Eve,” he said to John with a smile and handed him a cup and plate.

 ---

  
Thanksgiving morning was beautiful as only Florida can be in November--clear sky, the promise of a warm day. The truce of the night before shattered in an argument over what to wear to the Hudsons'.

"For God’s sake John, this is a dinner not a tractor pull.” Sherlock straightened the collar on his plum colored shirt in the mirror on John’s bedroom wall—Fuck! John loved that color on Sherlock--and buttoned the jacket of the dark charcoal Spenser Hart suit.

"Honey said it wasn't formal. She stressed not formal. Not. Formal." John tucked his navy blue polo shirt into the waist of his tan and navy Madras plaid shorts and re-cinched the belt. He sat on his bed to put on his dock shoes without socks. 

"I _am_ informal. I’m not wearing a tie," Sherlock answered.

As he walked out of his bedroom, John mumbled something that sounded like "Fucking posh arsehole" while Sherlock's sounded like "American" as he checked himself one last time in John’s floor length mirror.  

  
\---

  
"Hahyoo," said the toddler who answered The Hudsons’ door when they rang.   
  
John squatted down to her height. "Hahyoo to you too. Happy Thanksgiving!" But she ran for mom, hiding behind her legs. The aromas from the coming dinner and desserts wafted over him. Now noon, his stomach grumbled loudly in protest about the lack of breakfast.

“Happy Thanksgiving!" Honey hugged John and kissed his cheek as he entered the foyer.   
  
Sherlock extended his hand stiffly. Honey laughed and pulled him into a hug. No peck on the cheek; even on tip toe, she stood at least a foot shorter than he.   
  
"And a Happy Thanksgiving to you," she said to Sherlock appraising him at arms’ length. "You look so handsome. We haven't met formally. I'm Honey. And that is the last formal thing we will ever do in this house. We are not formal people here!"   
  
"Thanks for inviting us!" John said, smiling triumphantly at Sherlock and handing over a generous bouquet of sunflowers.

"And this is for all of us." Sherlock slid a still warm, perfect pecan pie onto the counter. He heard a fumbling tune from the baby grand piano in the living room. One of the children showing their newest lesson piece.  
  
“I’m glad we have a moment alone to speak,” Honey said. “I wanted to apologize for anything my kids said that caused you or Dr. Watson any trouble.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Sean told me that he’d been goaded into saying something. I wanted to beat that child. He knows better.”  
  
“Sean and his sister are good students. One child _was_ outspoken...”

“I want them to be good  _people_ , Mr. Holmes,” Honey interrupted. “Please keep your eye on Joe Moriarty. Don’t trust him…” A cry interrupted their conversation.  
  
In the living room, John smiled happily on the couch, listening to Siobhan’s piano piece. Sean chatted about Thespians to his Dad and John. Honey cradled Kiera, who had knocked over the bowl of potato chips. 

“Hello! John and Sherlock! Happy Thanksgiving!” a voice called from the back of the house. Mrs. Hudson’s colleagues stood to greet her, and she bussed their cheeks. She made the rounds, hugging the grandchildren, Honey and her own son, Matthew. When she sat down, the children swarmed over her for more hugs.  
  
While everyone was occupied, Honey and Matthew brought steaming bowls and platters to the table. Pine cone turkeys with names artfully handwritten on the construction paper tail feathers directed John and Sherlock to their seats. Someone (Sherlock strongly suspected Sean) placed them next to each other, directly across the table from their students.  
  
“Mr. Holmes made pecan pie for dessert! Save room,” Honey reminded everyone.  
  
John swore he heard Sean whisper something about ‘poison’ to Siobhan, and they giggled until Sherlock set his teacher stare on them. Dead silence followed.  

“ _Please_ teach me how to do that,” Matthew said in mock exhaustion.

Honey laughed and said “Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, every year we say what we’re thankful for. Would you like to start?”

Sherlock nodded. “I am thankful for friends who accept apologies.” Under the table, John reached for his hand and squeezed it.   
  
John smiled at the Hudsons and added, “I am thankful for new friends who become best friends.” Their hands stayed intertwined under the table until their turn to pass the food. 

Serving plates passed around the table many times over. Even Sherlock, who rarely ate, took seconds. When no one could eat another bite, Mr. Hudson declared the meal a success and shuffled everyone the living room while he cleaned and laid out the desserts.

The children, tired of the adult conversation, took their desserts to the television and ate there. Able to speak freely, Sherlock asked with uncharacteristic hesitance, “You said we should be wary of Joey Moriarty. Why?”  
  
Honey opened her mouth then closed it. Matthew sighed. “Five years ago, the Moriartys’ oldest son was raped and beaten almost to death outside a gay bar. I suspect he was in the right place at the wrong time, but his parents won’t hear it. Since then, they’ve crusaded _against_ gay rights.”   
  
“Be careful,” Honey added. She squeezed John’s arm affectionately.

When finally John and Sherlock left, they were hugged, kissed, and, Sherlock suspected, drooled upon.

“I’m glad we walked here,” John patted his belly. “I need the exercise after that dinner.” Sherlock agreed. They laughed as they walked to their neighborhood, chatting about everything except what John _really_ wanted to say to Sherlock. 

He gathered his nerve and said, “I think I’m in love with…” Sherlock looked at John, his eyebrow raised, “…Honey Hudson. These leftovers will feed us for a week.” John sighed and fumbled with the plastic container, cursing his own weakness.

   
\---

  
The following Friday morning, John woke early to finish packing for the overnight trip to the district Thespians tournament. His stomach fell when the phone rang; very early or very late phone calls usually meant tragedy. But Sherlock was okay, and it was a local phone number so it wasn’t his mum, dad or sister. He released his breath and answered.

“I’m sorry to call so early,” Molly Hooper immediately said. “Sally Donovan backed out of the trip, but we’re committed to bringing three judges.” Molly hesitated before continuing. “Do you think, maybe, Sherlock would be willing to go?”  
  
“What are you trying to do to those poor children?” John’s laughter escalated until Sherlock peered around the corner of the doorway, trying to deduce the problem. “I’ll try, but I can’t imagine the answer will be yes--” He hung up and turned to Sherlock, who had already solved the puzzle.  
   
“Allow me. Sally Donovan has again backed out, and you are short a judge. Molly asked you to talk me into going.” Sherlock sniffed in contempt at the feeble plan.   
  
John beamed his most convincing smile. Pointing to his suitcase he said, “I’ll pack for you; there’s room in my suitcase.”  
  
“If I must go,  _you_ will not pick out my clothing. God forbid. I would be dressed in polo shirts and--cargo pants.” Sherlock faked a shudder as he walked back to his room and received a sock ball to the head.  
  
“Bus leaves at 7 though. You’ve only got 45 minutes to pick out clothes for one night. Can you do it?” Still facing away from John, Sherlock smiled broadly at the sarcasm.  
  
“I may not. I do actually have clothes, unlike you, my ill-dressed housemate, who only wears khakis and jeans. And something called lounge pants.”  
  
John’s belly laugh carried across the house as Sherlock chose a suit and shirt. He hung them in his garment bag and laid it carefully over the arm of the couch.  
  
“Where are your things? I still have room.” John said, as he pulled the small suitcase into the lounge.  
  
“I’ve hung my suit and shirt to avoid wrinkles, and my toiletries are in the front pocket.”  
  
“Pajamas? Socks? Slippers?” John asked.  
  
“I don’t sleep in slippers, socks or pajamas” A flush crept up Sherlock’s chest and neck as he realized what he had revealed. John held his breath while he thought of that beautiful vision. “Are you ready to go?”

\---

  
The charter bus arrived at 7 as scheduled, but several students were missing. After phone calls and threats, the last child appeared by 7:20, and they left for Tampa. The bus held 24 students, three judges and eight parent chaperones. With the late start and traffic, the trip took almost twice as long as expected.  

When they finally pulled up to the Marriot Waterside Tampa, the students dashed inside with Molly to retrieve their name badges and then ran to the ballroom for the pep rally. The remaining adults followed with more decorum. The tournament directors knew how to keep hundreds of students busy; the remainder of the day they offered ‘see and do’ mini classes such as stage make up, voice for musical theater, and costume design.

After the evening events was their first chance to settle into their hotel rooms.  “What a freakin’ long day,” John said to Molly as the last parent/student group closed their room door. They slumped against the wall in mock exhaustion. Sherlock, however, remained fresh and unwrinkled.   
  
“Is it illegal for teachers to drink on field trips? Because I really wish I had a date with Jim Beam…” Molly whispered, laughing.  
  
“Oh God, that’s just what we need. I can see the headline now: ‘Teachers Sloshed on School Trip’--”   
  
“Perhaps if you retired to your rooms, you could deal with your exhaustion appropriately.” Sherlock raised his eyebrow and brought his key from the suit jacket’s inner pocket. He opened the door and carried his garment bag inside.   
  
John wedged his foot in the door before it closed and smiled at Molly. “See you here at 8? We can round up the kids and herd them downstairs for breakfast.”  
  
“Yup pard’ner!” Molly said, following John’s dreadful cowboy metaphor and closed her door behind her.  
  
John pulled the suitcase into the room and stopped short when he saw one queen bed in the small room. Sherlock’s garment bag hung in the closet, and he was stretched out on the left side of the bed, checking his email on the phone.  
  
“Wow. Yeah. One bed. That’s--unusual for a hotel these days.” John stumbled to find the right words.   
  
“Please John. We are adults. Clearly we can share a bed for one night without any issues.”  
  
That was just it, though. John didn’t want it to be for one night. His cock agreed, thickening at thoughts of sex with Sherlock.  
  
“Do you need the bathroom now, or may I--” Sherlock asked, his toiletry case in his hand.  
  
“No, go ahead. That’s fine.”  
  
Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom, and John retrieved his toiletry bag from the suitcase, waiting his turn. Sherlock walked up behind him, just as John removed his shirt. He stare openly, admiring John’s strong back, his waist, but mostly, his ass. Sighing quietly, Sherlock rearranged his cock hoping to stop its movement. He slid his hand away just as John turned around and headed to the bathroom.  
  
When he returned, John pulled the old, worn t-shirt from his school in England over his head and removed his trousers with his back to Sherlock. ‘This is awkward,’ John thought. ‘We walk around in less than this at home.’ He stood in his boxer briefs with his khakis in his hand and finally decided to throw them over top of the bureau.   
  
Sherlock, watching him, had already removed his suit jacket and was toeing off his shoes. He removed his trousers and placed them on a hanger and then put the jacket over the pants. John lay in bed, watching Sherlock pad to the closet and back again, wearing nothing but that damn plum color suit shirt and his boxers that looked like--silk? Posh bastard. Posh. Hot. Bastard.  
  
“You are meticulous with your clothes,” John mocked. “You could try that with your things at home.”  
  
Sherlock removed his shirt, and laid it carefully on the chair. Now, with nothing but the silk boxers between him and Sherlock, John really didn’t know if he could do this. John slid under the covers and tucked them around him like battle armor, while Sherlock casually lay on his side atop the covers reading emails.  
  
“This email says breakfast call tomorrow is 7:30, John. I believe you told Molly 8..."   
  
"What? Bollocks. Let me see." He shifted closer to Sherlock and looked over his shoulder.  "Wait. Is that **_my_** email? It's password protected!"   
  
John looked nose to nose at Sherlock, who smiled and answered, “In a manner of speaking. Took me less than a minute to guess yours.”   
  
There was no point in arguing, but John tilted his head slightly and made a face at Sherlock, who decided in that moment that this chance may not come again. He wouldn’t…couldn’t…let it slip away.

Sherlock moved in closer and ghosted his lips over John’s. Soft. Warm. Sherlock kissed him waiting to be pushed away, emotionally and physically.    
  
Far from pulling back, John slid his hand behind Sherlock's neck, stroking his hair, pulling him closer. He kissed deeply, knowing how much this cost Sherlock. When John finally broke off, Sherlock looked scared, afraid he’d overstepped, misunderstood.   
  
But John looked down into Sherlock's face and said softly, "Hello, friend." Fear disappeared, replaced by hope.   
  
John took the phone and placed it on the nightstand. He rolled back toward Sherlock and kissed his long slender neck, stopping at his pulse point just under the ear. Sherlock inhaled, his neediness fueling John’s passion. He stayed in that spot, biting gently, then kissing the bruise, only to bite again.

Sherlock’s soft hands, those fingers, moved over John, greedily touching warm skin, memorizing it in case this never happened again. Down John’s back, up and down his spine. When Sherlock slid his hand over john’s ass, John stopped kissing and hummed his approval.  
  
“S’ok,” he said to Sherlock. Permission to dip under the elastic of the waist band. Maybe John wouldn’t change his mind. But Sherlock’s experience reminded him it would end badly...  
  
John broke away from Sherlock and left the bed. Sherlock watched him go, but John stood and hooked his thumbs in the waist band of his boxer briefs, gently pulling his pants over his cock and down his legs. He stepped out of them, not in the least self-conscious of his bobbing cock. Naked, he walked around to Sherlock’s side of the bed and reached for the waist band of the silk boxers.  
  
Sherlock swallowed hard. The last time, so long ago, he had taken a step further with a friend-- his best friend—he’d given himself over. Not just his body, but his soul. That ended disastrously, and Sherlock had spent the last 7 years building walls. He would never again be hurt like that.     
  
But John looked at him, wanted _him_. Sherlock reached out, his slender finger tracing the outline of John’s cock, listening to John hum then gasp as Sherlock’s finger traced the slit on the tip, dragging the drops of pre-come around the head.   
  
“Can I take off your boxers?” John found it difficult to form words as he palmed the growing thickness in those pants.   
  
“Yes,” Sherlock whispered.  
  
John rubbed his finger over the growing wet spot on the boxers before he slid them over Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock moaned at the feel of John’s hands under his ass to edge the waistband over those blessed cheeks, then he carefully pulled them over Sherlock’s erection. It was beautiful, thick and ready. John ran his tongue up the underside of Sherlock’s cock.    

“John. Jesus, that’s…”   
  
“You liked that? How about this?” John slid his hand to the base and gripped it before licking upward again, this time all the way to the tip, flicking his tongue at the pre-come. Then he kissed up Sherlock’s lean body until he reached his mouth.

“Would it be okay if I kissed you again?” John desperately wanted Sherlock to taste what he’d tasted. Sherlock nodded with his eyes closed and kissed John eagerly. When Sherlock’s lips parted, inviting john in, he accepted. Tongues gently flicked and twisted, hands roamed. John straddled Sherlock, cocks rubbing against each other. It chafed without lube, but neither minded particularly much--the pleasure outweighing any pain, and in some way, the pain adding to the pleasure. Sherlock canted his hips to feel  _more;_ it had been so very long, too long, since he had allowed himself physical pleasure like this. 

John brought his palm to Sherlock’s mouth to lick a wide stripe. The tongue tickled his palm and all John wanted was to feel that tongue on him, moving over his skin. John brought his hand down between them and wrapped it around both cocks, stroking and thrusting. 

It had been months since John felt so undone, so ready. He wanted Sherlock on him, in him. He thrust harder into his fist as did his lover.

"No one has touched me like this since..." Sherlock said through ragged breaths, engulfed in pleasure. “I’m not going to last much longer.” That thought set John even closer to the edge. 

"Fuck yeah," John kissed him powerfully, teeth crashing together unexpectedly but unapologetically. When his tongue flicked Sherlock’s at the same time that his fist stroked over the slicked heads, Sherlock called out John’s name and cum spurted over John’s hand and their chests. Sherlock’s “fuckohfuckyeahgood” brought John crashing, and his own come mingled with Sherlock’s on their chests.

John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s while he regained his ability to breathe. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was looking into his and stroking his hand up and down spine. 

John smiled and Sherlock said, “Hello friend.” 

“That was amazing.”

“Yes, but budge off,” Sherlock said, nudging John back onto the bed. “You aren’t particularly light.” 

John’s belly laugh carried to the hall where Ms. Hooper kept a look out for wandering students. She rolled her eyes, glad that their room didn’t abut any student rooms. 

John rolled off and sighed, pulling the cover up.

“Stop that! You’re going to get the sheet wet, and inevitably I will wind up sleeping under it.” Sherlock brought a warm, damp face cloth and a hand towel from the bathroom and cleaned up John’s chest and then his own. When John returned from the bathroom himself, he pulled Sherlock close.

“See? The sheet isn’t wet,” he said, as he covered them. John felt carefree and joyful, better than he had in-- well, ever.  
  
“John, I--” Sherlock turned his face toward John. “I haven’t had sex with someone in a long time and I know it changes a friendship, so I think this was…”  
  
John closed the distance between them and kissed Sherlock, gently and then more passionately. He stroked Sherlock’s cheek, slid his hand into those curls--an aphrodisiac. When they broke apart to breathe, John said, “I don’t know what happened before. But we have lived together for two months. You know me and who I am. If you want this, and I do, you need to know that our friendship will change but we won’t break it. It will be better. And hotter.” John waggled his eyebrows, making Sherlock laugh. 

“Enough talk,” Sherlock said. His hand dragged down John’s chest, and John closed his eyes and smiled.  
  
“I want to kiss you,” John said, his voice thick with his need. He’d never kissed anyone the way he kissed Sherlock. Not even Mary, whom he had expected to spend the rest of his life with. This was diving off a cliff, electricity, and shivers and floating in crystal waters the color of Sherlock’s eyes, and peace, the feeling in your belly and heart and soul when you realize you’re just happy. This was what he wanted with Mary but never felt. This was simply right.   
  
Neither slept much that night. They spoke quietly, murmurs of lust and devotion, mixed with snark and laughter. Their hands explored, chastely stroking chests and backs, then less chastely cocks and asses. They rested after orgasms, exhausted and pleasured. Legs entwined, holding hands, nuzzling leading to more kissing and exploration. Neither complained about the lack of sleep.  
  
At 6am, John called out to Sherlock, inviting him to share the shower. Sherlock stepped behind the white plastic shower curtain into the hot water. It felt amazing against his face and chest, warming his muscles and removing the last bit of sleepiness. John, who’d moved out of the water when Sherlock stepped into the shower surprised Sherlock by stroking his back with the small bar of soap and washing him.  
  
“Just enjoy it,” John smiled as his hands washed Sherlock’s back, his arms, and slid down over his ass to his long legs. Firm so as not to tickle, John washed the back of Sherlock, and said, “Rinse your back, then I’ll wash your front.”

With his eyes closed, Sherlock rinse and tipped his head back into the hot stream of water. John stared at Sherlock’s cock, thick and erect and had one idea. With Sherlock’s eyes still closed, John sank to his knees. He cupped Sherlock’s balls in one hand, and swirled his tongue over the cock’s head, ducking into the slit to taste the pre-come drops.  
  
“What--what are you doing?” Sherlock asked, the hesitation clear in his voice.  
  
“This,” John said, and took the head into his warm mouth, flicking his tongue over the beading tip, around the edges. He took more in and bobbed up and down, his tongue working the underside. John enjoyed taking Sherlock apart, hearing him whine and mewl, knowing that he was the reason Sherlock’s legs trembled. He sucked the head and then took in as much as he could before it became uncomfortable. He swallowed around the cock, knowing it would undo Sherlock completely.  
  
“Christ John, I...” Sherlock’s hands swept through John’s hair, and then held John’s head still as he shuddered into his mouth. John swallowed greedily and continued to lap at Sherlock’s cock until all was gone.   
  
“Oh my knees,” John laughed as he stood up, warming himself in the hot water. He pushed his own erection against Sherlock’s thigh looking for nothing other than warmth. Sherlock looked dazed and shocked.  
  
“What’s wrong, baby?” John asked.  
  
“I’ve never…no one has ever…I didn’t mean to…”  
  
“Sherlock was that the first time anyone’s sucked you off?” 

Sherlock nodded, eyes closed. Joshua had wanted to, had tried to, but Sherlock pushed him away. But this. This was. Amazing. “I should have asked,” John said, looking into Sherlock’s eyes, stroking his cheek. “May I kiss you?” Sherlock nodded, and as John kissed him, Sherlock hesitantly opened his lips for John’s tongue. He could taste himself on John’s tongue, the slightly bitter mixing with minty tooth paste. 

John returned the kisses, needing them, wanting more, his cock ready to explode. “Touch yourself for me,” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear. “I want to see you come.”

John lathered his hand with soap and stroked himself as he looked into Sherlock’s eyes. When Sherlock reached down, taking him into his own hand, John knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out, even after his orgasms the night before. With firm strokes, Sherlock twisted his hand over the head, then back down. John's balls tensed, and his come pulsed over Sherlock's fist. He threw his head back as he cried out, exposing his neck to Sherlock who wanted to mark it, to say, 'mine. Dr. John Watson is mine." 

A soft, slow kiss, and John suddenly remembered why they were where they were. "Fuck! What time is it?" They barely had enough time to scrub their hair, rinse and throw on clothes to get to breakfast on time.

Molly saved seats for them at her breakfast table, and as the Hudson kids reassured themselves nervously and loudly next to her, Molly surreptitiously studied her grinning colleagues. Both freshly showered, they looked happy. No. More than that. They looked content, but there was no time for Molly to ask questions. The tournament director was providing last minute instructions from the podium, then Molly left to pick up the judging packets and the list of performance times.

"Break a leg Sean and Siobhan," Sherlock called as everyone left the table, leaving the two men alone. Siobhan's jaw dropped, but Sean pulled her toward Ms. Hooper and the rest of the team. "Isn't that what you're supposed to say?" Sherlock asked, and John laughed.

"I think she's just surprised, love,” John said, squeezing Sherlock’s hand reassuringly.

The day passed in a maelstrom of performances, judging, and calming actors with stage fright, interspersed with laughter and junk food at more classes on theater arts. By mid-afternoon, the JAMMS team regrouped in the hotel lobby for check out and to bring their suitcases to the bus. After an early dinner at the hotel, they headed to the ballroom for the awards ceremony. Only Superiors and Best In Show would be announced.

The teams sat at tables assigned by school; they listened carefully to the Superior Rating by category. JAMMS took home 3 superior ratings; Siobhan and Sean’s hard work paid off, as did their friend Hudson’s. Their teammates hugged and cheered, and even Mr. Holmes hugged Siobhan and Hudson. The remainder of the team would know their scores on the bus ride home. Since no JAMMS students took "Best In Show", Molly decided to duck out before those performances began. With any luck, they would be back at school by 9.

As the bus began its ride home, Molly handed out the ratings sheets so the kids could read the judges' comments and suggestions. Of the 24 students, 13 had done well enough to advance to the state tournament in February. The kids chattered loudly, singing and quoting movies and television shows. The adults sat quietly, taking in the happiness around them.

John and Sherlock sat together at the front of the bus, holding hands in the darkness. Occasionally Sherlock would talk about the day or what needed to be done on Sunday. Occasionally John would whisper about the night before and what he needed to do to Sherlock on Sunday. Sherlock smiled, happy that the darkness covered his blush.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. A Piece on Earth and No Goodwill Toward Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best early Christmas present John and Sherlock have given each other is themselves. Although the house mates are choosing to keep their new relationship a secret, James Moriarty has figured it out, and won't let it pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *These characters do not belong to me. If you know it, have heard it or seen it, it doesn't belong to me.
> 
> *221btls is an amazing Beta. She says the hard stuff when it needs saying. 
> 
> *Please forgive the terrible pun in the title of the chapter ... but of course, piece refers to... "of ass"

“On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…”

“Ebenezer Scrooge in a palm tree…”

“Sherlock, where’s your holiday spirit!” John smiled with his head down in a bin of dusty Christmas ornaments, rooting around for tinsel or some form of garland. “It’s two weeks til Christmas, and this house needs decorating.”

“Bah humbug.” Sherlock stood back, appreciating the view of John’s ass as he bent over. “Must we actually decorate the tree?”

“You really are the Grinch, aren’t you,” John laughed, as he plunked a red and white furry Santa hat on Sherlock’s head. “Of course we have to decorate it! Thankfully Mrs. Hudson left some of her old stuff here. God, I love Christmas!”

“I haven’t decorated since I moved here. I find it difficult to jibe Christmas with 80 degree weather.” Sherlock removed the hat and examined it, and replaced it on his head.

Since John and Sherlock spent more time in the formal living room chatting and working, they decided that they would place the 8’ evergreen tree there. John had wound strands of fairy lights around the tree, lacing them through the branches while Sherlock supervised.

“Aha!” John held up three unopened boxes of tinsel icicles triumphantly. “But no tinsel til we put the ornaments on!”

Not wanting to appear too interested, Sherlock edged over to the box to inspect its contents, whistling mindlessly. John laughed. “Now you’re doing it…On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, a kiss by an undecorated fir tree.” He pecked Sherlock’s cheek, but Sherlock took the chance to embrace John.

“I suggest that we place this on hold and attend to some other issues that have arisen,” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear. He pressed his thigh between John’s legs, his meaning clear.

John laughed again and pulled away. “Let’s finish this first. With the concert tomorrow night, we won’t have a chance then. But I promise, I’ll be sure to bring the mistletoe. I’ll have to kiss whatever it hangs above…” He traced the bulge in Sherlock’s pants, his meaning clear.

Together they hung gaudy baubles from the 1970s and delicate ornaments that certainly had belonged to an earlier time, handed down from grandparents or great grandparents. They draped the tinsel icicles last. Sherlock separated the silver strands, hanging each individually. John grabbed small handfuls and flung them at the tree, falling where they did.

Sherlock’s criticism of John’s form and aesthetic earned him a face full of tinsel.

“How do you like that form?” he asked, laughing at tinsel hanging from Sherlock’s curls.  
“All you need now are some blinking lights.”

With the angel on top of the tree, Sherlock insisted that John be the one to clear the tinsel from the floor—“You were the one throwing it instead of placing it…”—while he brought the box back to storage. When he shifted some empty cartons in the bin to make room, a ball of faded tissue paper caught his eye. Carefully unwrapping it, he smiled and showed John.

_Our First Christmas Together._

Sherlock leaned his head down and gently kissed John, the ornament still in his hand.

John took the ornament and placed it on the tree near the angel, and then took Sherlock by the hand, leading him to the bedroom. “You were right. The rest of the clean-up can wait.”

\---

The JAMMS holiday concert would be the first in the newly renovated, 500 seat auditorium. On one side of the stage in front of the curtain, Molly’s theater set design class decorated evergreen trees draped in strands of fairy lights, white and blinking. On the other side, they'd created a window and menorah.

John peeked out from behind the curtain. Almost every seat was filled, with people standing along the walls.

"I don't know if I’m afraid or excited," John said to Molly and Mrs. Hudson. He'd enlisted their help that evening. Molly had curtain duty and would chaperone the few thespians performing in between the choruses. Mrs. Hudson and several parents would facilitate the smooth movement of the students.

"Where's Sherlock tonight?" Mrs. Hudson asked John as she snagged a 6th grade boy to help him tie his uniform’s emerald green bow tie.

"He was going to stay home but I convinced him to collect the canned food donations outside," he said, as he untied his own emerald bow tie. "It cost me a month's worth of television though. For the next four weeks I'm not allowed to turn the telly on."

Mrs. Hudson took control of John's tie, as she said very seriously, "Oh dear that's Christmas vacation. You'll have to read or find something to do to pass the time."

Without students in earshot Molly snickered. "Yes, John. What ever will you find to do?" she said, innocently.

"What? I mean the...internet and..." John blushed furiously and both women laughed kindly.

"John, dear, it's obvious you fancy him," Mrs. Hudson began.

"He’s my friend..."

"And those of us who've known Sherlock the past five years have never seen him happier. Frankly, it's confusing the students. One even showed me a test that said ‘Good’ on it.

"With an exclamation point," Molly added.

John's blush crept up to his cheeks. "Don't say anything. We don't want any repercussions. I know there are people who wouldn’t approve."

At that moment Siobhan, in her sequined emerald show choir dress, twirled up to hug her grandmother and Ms. Hooper.

"Break a leg DW! We're gonna be great!" she said to John and twirled off.

"DW?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Yes. Doctor Watson. They all do it now," John sighed dramatically and exited stage right with only five minutes to organize the students.

Over the course of 60 minutes, the four choruses performed to loud applause. Between group changes, John talked about himself, charming the audience with his story of a British man in the Deep South and laughing along with them.

“I hope you will join us for our final song. It’s my favorite English carol, ‘The Holly and The Ivy.’ Before we begin, I’d like to thank some people who made tonight a success.” Mrs. Hudson. Ms. Hooper. The school administrators. All received cheers from the crowd. He thanked Sherlock for collecting food. Sherlock, who stood at the back of the auditorium among the parents, expected to be greeted by hiss boos. He smiled broadly as the audience cheered him, too, and then he disappeared into the crowd.

“I’d also like to thank you for coming tonight and for the pleasure of teaching your children. And now, ‘The Holly and the Ivy’, with our special guest."

Sherlock walked onto the stage carrying his violin and a flurry of whispers took the crowd. When he began, the sweet notes from violin singing in the silence of the theater, the audience gasped. Sherlock looked over at John whose smile lit his face. He played the first verse before the students sang. The applause shook the auditorium.

Afterward, several families invited John and Sherlock to join them for a quick dinner out, but they declined.

“We’ll just have dinner at home,” Sherlock said.

John added quickly, “Yes, I rent a room from Mr. Holmes. My start date was so quick it was convenient to accept his offer of a spare room.”

Sherlock’s face fell, but John didn’t notice; he had moved on to accept congratulations from other families.

High on praise and adrenaline, John chatted non-stop on the short drive home. He continued his monologue into the kitchen, pulling out eggs, ham, bread, and cheese to make breakfast for dinner as Sherlock changed into night clothes.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock asked, realizing from John’s expression that he’d been asked a question.

“Are ham and egg sandwiches ok for dinner?” John asked, standing in the lounge, wearing his Keep Calm and Sing On apron and holding a spatula in his hand.

“I ate yesterday,” Sherlock answered, already sitting in his arm chair engrossed in student essays.

“Yes, and good. But you’re eating today, too.” John came over and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “Thank you for tonight.” And headed back toward the kitchen.  
“For what?”

“For everything, love. Collecting the donations. Moral support. Especially for looking so good when you played the violin,” John said, listing the obvious answers. Sherlock paid no attention to John. "Are you ok?”

Sherlock waved his hand to dismiss John, “Yes, fine.”

John finished dinner, knowing ‘fine’ wasn’t fine at all. He filled the plates with the ham and egg sandwiches, added tangerine slices from their tree, and brought the food into Sherlock’s bedroom. Their bedroom these past two weeks.

He returned to Sherlock’s chair, and removed the red pen and papers from his hands. “Come with me. We’re going to eat and talk.”

“I do not need to eat or to talk.”

“Regardless,” he took Sherlock’s hands and pulled him from the arm chair. “Enough work for tonight.”

Over the past three months, John learned that he could not make Sherlock do something unless the clot wanted to do it. It meant something that Sherlock allowed John to lead him into the bedroom. That Sherlock allowed John to tuck him under the covers and accepted the plate of food and the steaming cup of tea.

“I know I’ve made you angry, Sherlock,” John tried again once they'd finished eating in silence. “Please talk to me."

Sherlock chose his words carefully, anger and hurt roiling beneath his calm. “I’m not afraid to tell people that we are together, but you seem to be. Are we together-- or are we what people call friends with benefits.”

“Of course we are together.” John now knew what had pissed off Sherlock.

"Yes. Here at home. Alone. But are you embarrassed to be with a man in public? Ashamed?" He stared into John's eyes, not looking away, forcing him to answer this question.

"No Sherlock. I am not embarrassed or ashamed to be with a man. To be with you. But I worked fucking hard to become a Ph.D., and I can make a difference in the music program here. I am concerned about what people may say if we are out. That I could lose my job. But I am not ashamed of us.”

John took his lover's hands in his and kissed his palms. His fingers. He looked at Sherlock's beautiful face, aching to tell him how much he loved him. How Sherlock consumed his thoughts and fantasies. How nothing in those fantasies embarrassed him or made him feel anything other than joy.

“You cannot lose your job…”

“But I can, Sherlock. New teachers can be fired for any reason. And immoral behavior is as good a reason as any. I’m sure the school board and its lawyers would have plenty to say.” John’s air quotes underscored the vagueness of ‘immoral behavior’. "Six months. In six months when school is over and I have signed a contract for next year, then we can be out. Would you wait six months? Will you do that for me?"

“Yes, but I don’t believe duplicity will work in our favor.” Sherlock moved his plate and tea to the bedside table and reached for his iPad.

John eased closer to Sherlock and took the iPad from his hand. “I think tonight’s success calls for a celebration,” he whispered, his lips tracing the curve of Sherlock’s ear and down the length of his neck. He flicked his tongue along the collar bone and blew softly on it, raising goose flesh. Sherlock whimpered and slid down to lay on the mattress.

He lifted John's mouth to his. The kiss began gently, but he couldn’t hold back. He needed John too much…wanted John so much. Every spare moment today Sherlock imagined him. On stage. In control. Firm. Tender. Captivating. Those images spun out and entangled themselves with memories of them making love. He’d spent the bulk of the day teaching from behind his desk, afraid his body would betray his thoughts.

Here, now, he needed all of John.

Sherlock’s hands traced the line of John’s hip as their mouths explored each other. He kissed his way down John's body connecting the sun freckles with his tongue until he reached the hip bone. Sherlock sucked and nipped while his fingers teased John’s cock and dipped below to his balls. John whimpered not wanting him to stop, not wanting him to move away. Except possibly for Sherlock to take him into his mouth. He shifted from his side to his back, showing his lover his cock that he needed him.

“So fucking hot. Want you so much,” Sherlock flicked his tongue at John’s slit, then teased him further, stroking the leaking head against his closed lips. “Oh you like that,” he said as John groaned, arching his back, needing to fuck that mouth; to come on those damn lips. John reached out to hold Sherlock’s head in place, carding his fingers through the curls, trying so hard not to pull his hair.

“Please Sherlock,” John begged, but Sherlock hushed him.

He brought his mouth to lay small kisses on John’s tip before he licked down the length to John's balls. Stroking his tongue over the sensitive skin, he took one into his mouth.

While he gently sucked John’s balls, Sherlock looked into John’s face, seeing the mix of apprehension and hunger there. He kissed John’s inner thigh, the downy blond hair tickling Sherlock’s cheeks, but John whimpered.

“Please Sherlock,” he begged again.

When Sherlock returned to John’s balls, stroking them with his fingers and sucking, John’s pleas changed to moans of pleasure. Sherlock slowed down, flicking his tongue over the skin between the balls and licking downward, stopping at John’s asshole.

John tensed as Sherlock swirled his tongue over the opening. “Fuck Sherlock. We never talked about this…are you… sure? Cuz…fu…fuck…”

Sherlock dragged his flat tongue over the opening, then with the point he teased the muscle, darting slightly in. He’d never heard John—never heard anyone—make the exquisite sounds he made right now.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckdontstop,” John cried out, so very glad he didn’t have to worry about being too loud.

Sherlock spiraled the hole, loving John’s reactions. Loving that it was him pulling John apart like this, almost making his lover weep from want.

His tongue breached John and quivered, to John’s obvious pleasure. John tried to fuck himself on that tongue, pushing against Sherlock, needing more. It had been so long since he’d had a man, inside him, filling him, fucking him. No matter how amazing sex was with a woman, he loved the feeling of cock. That drag out, the push back in, so slow that it was almost painful, but then, heating up, faster, harder, louder until…

Sherlock reached forward and stroked John as his tongue pushed in one last time. Then he kissed his way back up John’s balls until his mouth engulfed the cock again. He swirled his tongue over the slit and pushed inside, while his hand stroked up. When his fist and mouth met, Sherlock counterstroked, pulling away, making sure to swipe his hand over the sensitive head as he did. It was too perfect and too much. John arched his pelvis into the orgasm and spurted across Sherlock’s chest.

“Ohmyfuckinggod. You are amazing. Come here,” John said and kissed Sherlock, who tried to pull away. “Where did you learn that?”

“I know how to Google things,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And you don’t want to kiss me now.”

But John did. He kissed Sherlock, chasing his tongue. Kissed him hard, with teeth and small nips, swiping his tongue over the lips to take away the bite stings.

He felt Sherlock touch himself, and at this moment, he wanted—needed—to watch Sherlock orgasm. “Come for me,” John said as he lay back against the pillow, his eyes heavy with pleasure.

Sherlock drew down his pajama pants and slipped them off over the side of the bed. When he removed his silk boxers, he kept them in his hand. With his cock impossibly hard, he wrapped the silk around it and stroked slowly. John watched hungrily, whispering suggestions to Sherlock as he kissed his ear and neck again. “What does that feel like, the silk on your cock? Tell me.”

Too much input. The sensation of the silk. Trying to piece words together. John’s warm breath in his ear. His tongue tracing Sherlock’s neck. He focused on the growing tightness in his balls and the holy release of orgasm. John leaned over him and gently kissed his lips. Grabbing his t-shirt from the floor, John cleaned them up and then took their dinner plates back to the kitchen.

Sherlock watched John as he came back into the bedroom. “There will times when it will be difficult to keep our relationship a secret, but I will do everything I can.”

“I know. Thank you. When school is over, we won’t have to hide,” John answered as he returned to the bed. Snuggled against Sherlock using his shoulder as a pillow, John fell into sated sleep.

Sherlock lay awake for hours more, stroking John’s hair and cheek, knowing exactly how difficult the next six months would be.

The next morning as first period ended, Siobhan Hudson hurried to the front of the class, thrust an envelope at Sherlock, and “We'dReallyLikeItIfYouCouldMakeIt” blurred together, as she rushed out of the room. Before Sherlock had time to open the note, students for his 7th grade gifted Civics streamed through the door. He tucked it into his jacket to show John later.

Making dinner together became a nightly ritual. As Sherlock julienned carrots for the salad, John seasoned his spaghetti sauce (“No, we won’t use jar sauce, Sherlock. This is the only thing I can cook well, and I’m going to make it from scratch.”). He brought a taste of the marinara on a spoon for Sherlock to taste.

“Needs more salt,” Sherlock said, a splash of marinara creating half a mustache.

“It needs no such thing, you cretin. It’s perfect,” John licked Sherlock’s lip, taking longer than necessary, strictly speaking, to remove the spaghetti sauce. “Just like you.” Sherlock rolled his eyes but generously ‘allowed’ his doctor to remove the stain for as long as he liked.

“Not that I’m not enjoying this immensely,” Sherlock said, and pressed his crotch against John’s thigh to prove his point, “but, strictly speaking, your marinara is burning.”

“FuckFuckFuck!” He removed the sauce pan from the burner and poured it over two bowls of rigatoni. The kitchen had a small eating area, perfect for them. John enjoyed the press of Sherlock’s knees against his as they talked and laughed.

Sherlock withdrew the envelope from his pocket:

_14th Annual Holiday Open House_  
 _The Hudson Family Estate_  
 _Saturday, December 16th_  
 _3pm - ?_

 

John laughed heartily. “Honey asked me about the invitation at the concert last night. Apparently, Siobhan has been carrying it around since Monday, working up her courage.”

Sherlock attempted to appear incredulous that students found him frightening. However, he couldn’t keep the smile from breaking through, pleased at his reputation.

“Don’t worry. They’re learning that under that gruff, cranky, unrelenting exterior beats the heart of a gruff, cranky, amazing man.” John laughed as he dropped a kiss on Sherlock’s curls as he cleared the table. Sherlock grabbed him around the waist.

“Take that compliment back, John Watson!” Sherlock threatened, his fingers stroking the bare skin under John’s shirt.

“Or else?” John smiled, looking into Sherlock’s crystal eyes.

“I shall be forced to hurt you.” But his hands, dipping into the waistband of John’s running shorts, were anything but threatening.

“And how exactly will you hurt me? Sing to me? Be rude? Nothing I haven’t endured before,” John laughed, but made no move to leave as Sherlock’s hands stroked and grabbed the round flesh of his ass.

“Like this,” Sherlock pulled the waist band low over John’s left hip and nipped and suckled in a way that wasn’t, in the least bit, painful. Pleasure bloomed in John, who grabbed Sherlock’s curls and held him on the hip bone.

“I still don’t take it back,” he said when Sherlock finally moved his mouth.

“Put the dishes in the sink. We can do them later.” Sherlock took John’s hand and led him into the kitchen on the way to bed.

“Or tomorrow,” John kissed Sherlock’s hand that held his.

 

\----

Each year, family and friends eagerly awaited the Hudsons’ Open House. Not just the assortment of delicious food and gorgeous sweets, but the combination of people created a perfect party. The children sang carols, and anyone was welcome to join in or take over at the piano.

With the music and chatter, meaningful conversation was fruitless. John and Sherlock greeted the Hudsons, and with plates thrust upon them, grazed the main buffet table. John filled his plate quickly, but Sherlock seemed more interested in people than food. He made a game of observing people and deducing things about them, as he had done with John the day they met. He handed John a napkin wrapped around a utensil packet and stroked his thumb over John’s when their hands touched.

“Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes. I haven’t had the pleasure,” a slick, smooth voice spoke from behind Sherlock as he felt a hand clasp his shoulder. He turned, and John saw Joey Moriarty’s father holding a dessert plate with a few small slices of cheddar cheese.

“Mr. Moriarty,” John placed his plate on the table to shake hands. “Dr. John Watson. I have the pleasure of being your son’s chorus teacher. He’s quite gifted musically.”

“James Moriarty. Thank you. I agree.” His eyes moved from John to Sherlock and back again. Nothing hidden. He wore his suspicion openly on his face, ignoring John’s outstretched hand.

John immediately disliked the man. His haughty manner, his bespoke suit. But there was something more. He radiated animosity. Worse than disliking him, John distrusted him.

Moriarty ignored Sherlock and focused on John. “So, Doctor Watson. You settled in quickly.”

John began to explain about the previous teacher, but Moriarty cut him off. “Yes, we liked Ms. Dimmock. She had an excellent rapport with the students, but she knew how to speak to them as a professional. She is definitely a loss to Jesup Arts.”

John felt Sherlock tense behind him and stepped on Sherlock’s foot to stop him from speaking. “She absolutely is. Her new school is lucky to have her.” John agreed. He didn’t know if changing the subject would change the tenor of the conversation, but he said, “This Open House is lovely.”

“Yes. We put in an appearance each year.”

The more the man spoke, the more John disliked him. Clearly the son learned his attitude of superiority from his father.

“Mr. Holmes. You are quiet today. So unlike you!” Moriarty’s smile did nothing to undercut the animosity in his words.

John increased the pressure on Sherlock’s foot. “Just trying to keep him from singing,” John joked.

“I imagine you have heard him many times, considering you are roommates…” He said the words with distaste.

“I offered him a room in my home,” Sherlock said, ignoring the increasing pressure.

“Yes. My son said. I’m not sure why it needed to be public knowledge,” Moriarty said pointedly, turning back to the table and placing white grapes still on the bunch on his plate.

“The students see us arrive together since we carpool, and we answered their questions. There is nothing untoward,” John’s calm voice belied the anger underneath.

“People like you need to learn what private means,” Moriarty said as a parting shot, but Sherlock stepped in front of him, barring his way.

“People like what, Mr. Moriarty? Music teachers? Ph.D’s? British citizens?” Sherlock rose to John’s defense, leaning in threateningly toward Moriarty, who simply smiled.

“Sherlock, it’s good,” With a hand to Sherlock’s arm, John tried to pull him back.

“I had lunch yesterday with your brother, Mr. Holmes. He sends his regards.” An unspoken message sent and received by Sherlock. “Dr. Watson, have you met our school board lawyer, Mycroft Holmes?” James Moriarty asked. “Now if you will excuse me, my son is getting ready to sing, and I would like to sit with my wife to enjoy his performance.” The emphasis on the word wife rankled.

John left his full plate on the buffet table and turned back into the kitchen to say his good bye to Honey. His Christmas spirit had vanished.

The brief ride home was silent. As they pulled into the driveway, Sherlock turned to John.

“Do you remember the day we met? We went to Angelo’s for dinner and you told me that real people don’t have arch enemies. You were wrong.”


	8. Happy Christmas and a WONDERFUL New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John remembered the exact moment he stopped having sex with Sherlock. Love isn't sex. And how do you quiet down an audience of teenagers and parents? Teachers doing un-teacherly things!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thankful for the inspiration Pearl Jam and Nirvana provided for this chapter! See the links at the end of the story for videos of the real thing!
> 
> Please note that *I* changed a word or two in the lyrics in a way that would make them more middle school friendly. No disrespect is intended.
> 
> 221btls, you have no idea how much your kind words mean to me. Manna from Heaven.

John remembered the exact moment he stopped having sex with Sherlock.

“Good morning, love,” John rolled over and gazed up at Sherlock, his voice thick with sleep.  Sherlock, who was sitting up, had been awake for quite a while; his eyes clear and his iPad leaned against his knees. “Happy Christmas.”

Sherlock stroked the sleep-mussed hair out of John’s eyes. “Happy Christmas to you.” He slid down under the sheets, laying on his side so that he faced John.

To him, Dr. John Watson was the very best Christmas gift he had ever received. And that included the 15 th edition, 32 volume set of Encyclopedia Britannica he received in 1987, that he had begged for and his parents told him, in no uncertain terms, Santa was absolutely not bringing.

John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock gently on his lips, a kiss of good morning and joy. And love. At least that was his intention. The slow, sensual movement of lips on lips, then Sherlock’s teeth dragged across John’s lower lip. His tongue swiped the small bruise, sending a shock through John, thinking not of lips and teeth, but tongues and places lower. Sherlock felt John shiver; suddenly, nothing mattered more than making John quiver beneath him.

Sherlock loosened the tie on John’s pajama bottoms, reaching his hand in to stroke John, half thick and reacting immediately to the warmth and touch. John arched into it, rolling his hips to push in and pull out of Sherlock’s fist.

“Want you.” The words electrified Sherlock. “So much.” The love in John’s eyes electrified him more.

“You want to have sex?” Sherlock tried not to let his nerves resonate in his voice. 

“No, baby,” John whispered. He grazed the peak of Sherlock’s Adam’s apple with this tongue and licked down to his clavicle, tracing the prominent bones. Enjoying the vibrations the low moans made in Sherlock’s chest. “I don’t want to have sex. When you love someone, you make love.” He hadn’t stopped touching Sherlock, sprinkling small kisses on his chest.

“It’s been a long time since I was in love, John. I don’t know if I even know how any more,” Sherlock breathed out. 

"Will you make love with me?” John asked, kissing gently, saying many things without words. I will not hurt you. I will not betray you. I will not leave you.

At Sherlock’s nod, John reached over to the bedside table and pulled a tube of lubrication from it. He giggled unceremoniously at the noise it made when he squirted a dollop on his palm. “Pajamas off, please.” Sherlock pulled his flannel pants off, hesitantly. He had never bottomed. Had been afraid to be breached. For John, though…

John warmed the lubricant inside his fist, coated it, and then stroked Sherlock’s erection, covering it in lube. He tugged a few times, trying to ease the tension in Sherlock’s body. Was this a bad idea? 

“Shhhh baby. It will be good. So good. I can’t wait to have you in me.” John read the surprise on Sherlock’s face. “Oh baby, no. It’s been too long for you, and I want you to love this. I need you inside me. Will you do that for me? For us?”

Sherlock nodded, sure now that what he felt for John was love and not infatuation. John rolled on his back. “Kneel between my legs.” They were spread and waiting—needing. Sherlock squeezed more lube onto his fingers, and as he kissed John’s belly, his hipbones, his thigh, he slowly slid his finger into John. The reactions moved Sherlock, who was trying not to stroke himself as he fucked John with first one finger, then two, three.

“Want you. Now. _Please_.”

With the lube and precome, Sherlock slicked his cock and pressed against the opening. He was slow, too slow, not wanting to hurt John as he breached him.  “More, Sherlock. More _now_.” John whimpered, overwhelmed by his desire.

Sherlock pushed into the tight warmth. He pushed in as far as he could, and dragged out slowly. He repeated the movement until John grabbed Sherlock’s hips and held them in place, one cock thick inside him; one bobbing against his stomach. 

“You feel brilliant. But faster. _Harder_.” John gasped as he rolled his hips. Sherlock thrust in and out, finding a rhythm, eventually his hips snapping against John’s. One of John’s legs over his shoulder, one around his waist.

John’s words were unintelligible. He stopped resisting, fumbling roughly with his slick cock. It took just a few pulls in rhythm with Sherlock’s hips for him to orgasm, tightening his ass around Sherlock’s cock as he pulsed over his chest and belly.

“God John, this is…I’m so…I,” His hips stuttered against John, and he pushed in forcefully and released himself inside. 

Sherlock slowly drooped forward, resting his forehead on John’s. “I love you,” he said.  . “I believe I have since the day we met. When you listened to me, and sang with me, and smiled at me. No one has ever smiled at me in that way.” 

“I always will.” John kissed him tenderly, a gift Sherlock eagerly returned. 

They slept from exhausted pleasure, curled into each other, heads sharing one pillow. Sherlock, who rarely rested, woke to John stroking his face, thumb trailing over his cheekbone. 

“Happy Christmas, again,” John smiled as Sherlock tried to clear the sleep from his eyes.

“Indeed.” Sherlock returned his smile, sliding his hand over John’s hip to his ass, gently squeezing.

“Not now! It’s Christmas morning,” John rolled over to look at the alarm clock, “Well, Christmas afternoon!” He shook his head and laughed at sleeping in. “We have gifts to open!”

Deciding to be adults, they took showers (“No Sherlock! Not sharing with you today! Gifts to open!”) and dressed properly (“Yes, Sherlock.  Flannel pants are actual acceptable attire.”). John made them tea as Sherlock finished dressing. They’d had several offers to share the day with families they knew, but they had decided together that this first Christmas would best be spent alone. Enjoying each other fully and not worrying about hiding spontaneous emotions and words. 

They settled on the couch in front of the tree and fireplace (“Yes, Sherlock. It is perfectly acceptable to light a fire in the fireplace when it’s 40 on Christmas day in Florida.”). Sharing the couch, they faced each other from opposite ends, their legs entwined. John’s socked feet rubbed against Sherlock’s fuzzy slippers 

“I thought you didn’t wear slippers,” John said. “No pajamas, no slippers you said.” 

“There are a lot of things I do now that I didn’t do before,” Sherlock smiled, his slippered toe stroking the fly of John’s flannel pants. John’s giggle made Sherlock laugh. He handed John an elegantly wrapped box. From the size, it could have been a toaster. A microscope. A Really. Big. Box. Of Red Pens for grading papers.  “Go ahead. Open it,” he said shyly.

Slowly, John unwrapped the gift, enjoying the sense of having no guess. Red velvet ribbon off. Embossed gold paper unwrapped. He slit the tape and opened the flaps of the generic brown box. Another wrapped box. Three unwrapped nestled boxes later, John unwrapped a small thin gift, wrapped in cartoon wrapping paper. It _looked_  like a CD case. By rights, it _should be_ a CD. But he was quite ready to open the package and have it be photographs or possibly square slices of cheese.

A deep breath, John unwrapped the newspaper and looked at the familiar front of the CD case.

“Sherlock, it’s the demo CD from my band.” John could barely speak from shock. 

Sherlock smiled with his entire body.

“ _Lock and Load_ wasn’t that successful, so we didn’t even make any to sell. We had just a few of these to give out to producers.” He couldn’t stop staring at his 18 year old face looking back at him. He barely recognized that person any more. So much had changed. “I didn’t think there were even any left. Thank you.” He kissed Sherlock tenderly on the lips and sat back against the arm of the chair, reading the back of the CD case.

“My brother has many friends. As I said when we met, he used to sneak me in to your shows at clubs in London. One club owner had been given a copy of the CD and he liberated it and passed it along to me.” 

“You’ve had it all this time?” Sherlock nodded. “Sherlock, that’s 20 years.” John stared, overwhelmed by this gift. 

“I like what I like,” Sherlock answered simply. “Besides, the lead singer was quite handsome.”

John took a break from opening gifts to show Sherlock exactly how much he appreciated the thoughtfulness. Sherlock showed the lead singer that he was still quite sexy. 

When it was Sherlock’s turn to unwrap a gift from John, it was a much simpler event. Sherlock removed the tissue paper tufts from the gift bag. At the bottom sat a small snow globe, a beach scene with sand floating when Sherlock shook it.

“Open the envelope,” John coaxed.

 Sherlock tore it open and read aloud. “Reservations for two. Sanibel Island Resort.”

 “I made reservations for Spring Break. Just the two of us, away from here. We can do what we want, where we want and not worry about people we know seeing us,” John said shyly. “Plus. The wildlife refuge on the island has programs, including Florida history.” Sherlock’s smile broadened. He kissed John, slowly. Lingering. Promising.

The day passed in warmth and well-being, Sherlock and John occasionally choosing television (“You can have the telly today to watch the _Doctor Who_ Christmas episode, John”), or a nap, or love.  Once they chose food. Neither had planned for a meal, so they chose peanut butter sandwiches on toast as they sat on the couch in front of the fireplace and Christmas tree. The only nod to the holiday was two children’s plastic Christmas plates they’d found in the boxes of decorations from Christmas past. They listed to John’s CD and laughed and planned for their trip to Sanibel in March. 

The peanut butter melted out the side of the toast and left a trace above Sherlock’s lip. John smiled gently and reached over to brush it away. Sherlock caught John’s hand and sucked the peanut butter off the thumb. Their eyes connected as Sherlock’s tongue flicked over John’s finger.

When John finally removed his thumb, Sherlock said, “I love you.” He said many things without words. I know you won’t hurt me. I know you won’t betray me. I know you won’t leave me. And neither will I. 

Most of winter break passed the same way as Christmas day. They were well rested and well exercised.

 

\---

 

Sherlock was getting undressed for the shower when the doorbell rang.  He rezipped his pants and put his blue silk dressing gown on, rather than answering shirtless. Mrs. Hudson and her granddaughter Siobhan waved at him through the glass door.

“Hello dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, brushing past Sherlock and into the foyer. “I hope this is an appropriate time. Just my annual ‘state of the house’ visit. I need to look around to see if anything needs repair. Have you been keeping a list, dear?” 

“Hi, Mr. Holmes" Siobhan said shyly from behind her grandmother. "I'm very sorry to bother you during your vacation, but I had an idea I'd like to share with DW. I mean Dr. Watson. Is he here?” 

“He's indisposed, Miss Hudson. Perhaps your grandmother could email him your idea..." 

At that moment, John walked out of the master bedroom, clad only in a towel slung low on his hips. "Sherlock I'm waiting for you...are you coming or..." The tent in his towel told the story of what he needed Sherlock for.

John saw Sherlock's wide eyes and he looked quizzically until he finally saw Mrs. Hudson and Siobhan.  Everything registered. The towel. The hard on. The suggestive statement. The hard on. 

“Oh. My. God.” Siobhan and John said in unison. 

“Sherlock.” When John finally found his voice, it cracked mercilessly. “I’m waiting for you to decide if I’m going to shower first or you are.” He pulled the towel tighter against his waist, no longer worried about anything showing. 

“You first, John. I will help Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock’s eyes darted back and forth to the bedroom, trying to speak wordlessly to John. “When you’re finished, Siobhan has something to discuss.”

John decided against a shower at that moment and put on twice as many clothes as he normally wore.  Even in a sweater, shirt, t-shirt, pants, socks and shoes he felt under-dressed as he listened to Siobhan explain her idea. 

“Let’s have a talent show at school. We can ask for donations and the money can help pay for the state Thespian trip to St. Augustine. The kids going to the tournament  _have_  to perform, but we can open it up to anyone! What do you think?”

John thought that he had likely scarred Siobhan for life.

“That sounds like a great idea. I’ll email Mr. Lestrade and get his okay. Then we can pick a date and start planning. Since the state tournament is in February, we’ll have to move quickly.” 

When Mrs. Hudson and Siobhan left, John and Sherlock shared long-suppressed hysterics. Neither would forget Siobhan’s face. Or John’s. And both decided never to answer the door when they had plans.

 

\---

 

“There are a bunch of people here!” Hudson called out to Sean and Siobhan as she peeked out the closed stage curtain. The thespians going to the state tournament each owed $160 to cover the trip. What they raised at that night’s talent show would reduce the price considerably. 

John and Molly chose the old stage in the gym as the venue, deciding it would be less daunting than the state-of-the-art auditorium. Also, they reasoned, if it tanked and no one showed, they could pull the chairs in closer and the kids could perform on the floor instead of the stage. 

They needn’t have worried. Rumors that some teachers could possibly be _in_ the show drove up attendance. They’d set up chairs for 100, but John knew the custodians had added at least another 50. Filled with both students and adults, the crowd settled as the lights flickered and went out. 

Hudson opened the evening with her monologue. Sean and Siobhan followed with their duet from  _Grease_. They had a total of 14 acts listed; after the first 7, Molly Hooper announced a brief intermission where the audience could purchase snacks and drinks.

“Ms. Hooper, I can’t find DW,” Siobhan said, panic nipping at the edge of her calm. “I need my oboe, and it’s locked in his room!” 

“He’s busy, baby. Use my keys but lock it up again!” Siobhan took Molly’s keys and ran off. 

When the lights flickered and extinguished again, two spotlights chased each other on the closed curtain. 

When the curtains drew apart, the audience gasped. “Tonight!” Molly called out on a microphone from backstage. “For the first time in the US. Please welcome, LOCK & LOAD!” 

Despite his being dressed in shredded jeans and a Nirvana t-shirt, the audience easily recognized Sherlock and his violin. And Ms. Hooper with turquoise hair, in black low rise jeans and a cut off black t-shirt exposing her stomach when she jumped around. The drummer, hidden in the back, seemed to be an older woman, hidden under plaid and a ski cap.  The lead guitarist? Dirty brown disheveled hair down to his shoulders. Plaid shirt. Ripped jeans and dirty work boots. Didn’t look like any teacher. 

A guitar riff started the Grunge cover song, the musician’s head down and bobbing, face hidden by the long hair. The drum solo (pre-recorded and on playback, but the audience didn’t realize) revealed a grunge Mrs. Holmes. After the solo, she ripped her ski cap off and threw it.

 

_Load up on “stuff”, bring your friends_

_It’s fun to lose and to pretend_

_She’s over bored and self-assured_

_Oh no, I know a dirty word_

 

Once the guitarist sang, his voice was unmistakable. How many times had they giggled at Dr. Watson’s accent. Show tunes, sure. But Nirvana? _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ *.

Ms. Hooper pogoed as Dr. Watson sang the carefully altered lyrics that were school friendly; she joined Sherlock for the chorus.

 

_Hello, hello, hello, how low? Hello, hello, hello!_

At the end of the song, John looked up. The crowd was shocked and silent, then stood and cheered. He saw the raised iPhones and video cameras and knew that by tomorrow morning it would be on Facebook and Tumblr. If it got as far as YouTube, he would send a link to his Mum and Dad back home.

Without a wait, they launched into their next and last song, a cover of Pearl Jam’s  _Jeremy*_. 

Sherlock took the opening riff on his violin, but when the lyrics came, the audience looked to John. Shocked, they refocused on Sherlock, singing,          

_At home_

_Drawing pictures_

_Of mountain tops_

_With him on top_

_Lemon yellow sun_

_Arms raised in a V_

_“Laying” in pools of maroon below_

  
John and Molly shared a mic, singing the chorus,

 

             _Jeremy spoke in class today_

_Jeremy spoke in class today_

 

If they’d been shocked at Dr. Watson, they were stunned by Sherlock’s voice. The dour teacher. Cranky. An asshole grader (everyone said so). Slam dancing against John. Pogoing with Molly. Bringing his microphone around to Mrs. Hudson, so his mentor could sing part of the chorus with him.

Blown away. 

The audience screamed “ _Encore_!” Assuming they would be laughed off stage, the new Lock  & Load prepared only two songs. Instead, John removed his wig and took the microphone. When the crowd settled, he told the story of his Grunge cover band in London pubs in the ‘90s, and a young man who snuck in to see his favorite band.

Sherlock had the good grace to blush at breaking the law.

“And it took JAMMS to bring us together!” John took Sherlock’s hand before he realized what he’d done. He quickly had them bow holding hands, then pointed to Ms. Hooper and Mrs. Hudson.

“Now, back to your program!” Molly said and introduced the next monologue.

With the audience’s reaction, Molly decided she and Mrs. Hudson would take the charity buckets and stand at the exits to hopefully score more donations. That night, the Hudsons, Molly, John, and Sherlock sat at the Baker Street kitchen table and counted the money. Including checks and coins, they’d brought in over $1000. 

Thanks to Siobhan’s brilliant idea, each thespian would now pay only a nominal amount. She blushed with pride as DW hugged her, and Sherlock kissed her cheek. 

Molly hung back as the others left. “Sally Donovan stopped me after the show. She knows I’m friends with y’all. She warned me away. The school board lawyer has been asking Lestrade questions. He was there for a bit of the show tonight.”

“Who the hell is the school board lawyer? And why does he care?” John asked, unsure whether to be more pissed at Donovan or this nosy lawyer 

“He cares because I would wager a parent has called and lodged a complaint. And who is he? Mycroft Holmes. My brother.” 

John vaguely remembered the name. Where had he heard it. He closed his eyes and thought. James Moriarty. At the Hudsons’ Open House.

 _‘I had lunch yesterday with your brother, Mr. Holmes.’_  Moriarty had said.

“Oh God,” John said. “Are we fucked?” 

Sherlock’s face said it all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nirvana: Smells Like Teen Spirit https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hTWKbfoikeg&feature=kp
> 
> Pearl Jam: Jeremy https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MS91knuzoOA&feature=kp
> 
> Gwen Stefani with No Doubt pogoing https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-B7tAZQi5UA (at the start)


	9. Stupid Cupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock confronts Mycroft, his suspicions are confirmed. Will it affect his first Valentine's Day with John? And is it even possible to be sexual beings in a hotel filled with middle school students??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The song Sherlock sings John is called, "I Fall in Love Too Easily," from the 1944 movie Anchors Aweigh. Frank Sinatra was the first to record it, but there are about a gabillion versions. I was inspired by the Miles Davis recording. you can easily find it on Spotify.
> 
> * Special thanks again to 221btls for being a stupendous beta. Any mistakes are mine and mine alone.
> 
> * Thank you to all of you who come back week after week! I am so thankful that you are here ;)

“Are we fucked, Sherlock? If the school board lawyer is investigating us, no matter how covertly, that’s bad.”

Molly Hooper left after she’d dropped the bombshell courtesy of Sally Donovan: the school board lawyer was interested--very interested—in Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson’s living arrangements.  
   
“I don’t know, John. We cannot be fired for being gay. That I do know. But I have no doubt that someone determined and hateful enough could formulate a reason.” Sherlock stood in the foyer with John, watching Molly’s tail lights pull away from their house. Not house. Home. It was a house  _before_  John came to live there. Sherlock wanted to hold John, to reassure him, but knew he was so often awkward and misinterpreted cues.   
   
“I will get to the bottom of this, John. I will not let this happen.”   
   
“An incredible night, ruined by a homophobic asshole. Why Sherlock. Why couldn’t we just have this?”  
   
Sherlock stroked John’s hair and held him before leading him to the master bathroom. With the shower water warming, Sherlock undressed John, removing the Grunge clothing. When the water temperature was right, he held the shower curtain open for John and then undressed himself. Sherlock washed the evening off John. The make-up. The remains of the glue that secured the wig. The sweat. What he couldn’t wash off was the stench of nasty allegations.  
   
   
When Sherlock awoke at 5am, he knew what he had to do. Although he hadn’t seen Mycroft in over four years, he would have laid bets that his brother would be at the office by 6 at the latest. Like Sherlock, Mycroft rarely slept. No matter how distasteful it would be to see his brother, it was the fastest way to answers, and answers would make John happy.   
   
Sherlock gathered his work clothing and showered in ‘John’s bathroom’ (had it only been six weeks since John moved his things into Sherlock’s—their—bedroom?) and left the house quietly. He didn’t want John’s company and he didn’t want to argue about it. A pissed off John was not pleasant.   
   
The quiet snick as the front door closed roused John. When he rolled over to kiss Sherlock good morning, he was alone in bed save for a note on Sherlock’s pillow.  
   
             _Running errands. Took the Jag. See you at work. If you walk,  
            we can drive home together. I love you.  
   
   
_ John smiled. He’d thought he’d been fully and completely in love with Mary. But it was nothing compared to this. This was warmth and comfort and security and fireworks and joy and peace. This was love.  
   
   
Sherlock stood outside the school board office, the building dark in the too-early late January morning. His suit jacket did little to keep him warm. His one regret living in Florida was that his Irish wool Belstaff coat was entirely too heavy for the climate. It sat in cold storage in the event that he ever moved back to London. But here, at this moment, he could have used a heavier coat.   
   
             _ **Open the foyer door--SH**  
   
_    
Sherlock checked his phone for a return text. From the lone car in the parking lot, a Mercedes S Class, he knew Mycroft was inside.  
   
             _ **Mercedes S 550? *Not* the top of the line. Time for a new**  
 **car or did you take a pay cut?  --SH**  
   
_ He shouldn’t instigate a fight. He knew he shouldn’t but couldn’t help himself. Mycroft was just so fucking pretentious. (He had no idea that if John were there, he’d say, ‘Really? Mr.  _Salsa Red Jaguar?’).  
   
_ Sherlock followed Mycroft down the hallway to his posh office. Heirloom carpet on the floor (from Father’s study). Antique cherry wood desk, not from their past but well over 100 years old.   
   
"I wondered where Grandmother's tea service went," Sherlock said as Mycroft poured tea for him, adding cream to the cup first.   
   
"You remembered.” A warmth from long ago crossed Sherlock’s eyes, a memory of when Mycroft was his best friend and constant companion, but it quickly disappeared. Too much time had passed. Neither of them were now who they were then.  
   
"How could I forget, Sherlock? I prepared you tea every day from the time you were five until I left for school. Four years. It was our ritual." Mycroft poured himself tea, and after stirring with the silver spoon, placed it on the faint rose patterned china saucer.   
   
If Sherlock hadn’t known better, had never seen Mycroft charm his way into and out of things, he might have been touched by the nostalgia.   
   
Once he served the tea, Mycroft turned back to business. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your early morning call, dear brother?” He sat back in his leather wingback chair, with no hint of discomfort or alarm over this impromptu visit.  
   
Sherlock stared into Mycroft’s face, deducing what he could. As always, his brother was a blank slate. “We have not had any contact in nearly 5 years. Why am I suddenly quite interesting to you?”  
   
“You know why.” Mycroft raised his teacup to his lips, looking over the rim at Sherlock.  
   
“Explain.” Sherlock played the fine line between acknowledging the obvious and revealing too much. How much did the school board know about Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes?  
   
Mycroft placed his tea cup and saucer on the small side table. “You and Dr. Watson playing house has caught the unfortunate attention of influential people.”  
   
“By ‘people’ you mean donors to your forthcoming campaign for the county judicial election.” Sherlock cocked his eyebrow, hoping his shaky deduction hit its mark.  
   
“Don't be crass, brother mine. It ill suits you.” Mycroft repositioned himself in the wingback chair, feigning nonchalance. Bull’s-eye.   
   
“And yet that  _is_  it. James Moriarty makes a sizable donation to your campaign and in return you investigate rumored immoral behavior.”  
   
“Do listen to yourself. It's 2014. Employees cannot be fired for sexual orientation.”   
  
“And we both know there are ways around that. And as a first year teacher, John is the weak link. It will be much easier not to renew the contract of a new teacher than one who has taught gifted students for the past 5 years with excellent results.”  
   
“Even if that gifted teacher is a monumental arsehole,” Mycroft said, his British pronunciation superseding his carefully-crafted American accent. “I will neither presume to instruct you on what you should do, nor presume that you would listen if I were to tell you. But do not underestimate James Moriarty.”  
   
Sherlock would not give Mycroft the satisfaction of acknowledging the warning. But he had heard it, and it rattled him more than he wanted to admit. What was Moriarty capable of and what havoc would it bring to their lives. And where, when it finally played out, would Mycroft side.  
   
\---  
   
Throughout the day, John tried to find out where Sherlock had gone at such an early hour. His only response each time was “Later & not here.” John’s stomach fell each time, unable to even enjoy the stream of compliments about Lock & Load’s performance the night before. He went through his chorus classes mindlessly, readying for their upcoming Music Performance Assessments and the spring concert.  
   
Teaching students conducting techniques came in handy; John turned the Chorus I class over to the student conductor while he sat in the back of the room pretending to pay attention. Instead he broke every rule and texted Sherlock.  
   
              
             _I know I’m obsessing about this. Can you please give me  
            a synopsis?  
   
   
             **Are you going to be like this all day?   --SH  
   
**_ John smiled at Sherlock’s sass and the pathetic attempt to derail him.   
   
 ** _  
_**_Likely, also probably at my birthday and Valentine’s Day. Which is  
            coming up. Please?  
   
   
_ **_Are you actually incapable of waiting three more hours? --SH  
_**    
 ** _  
_**_I am fully capable of waiting, but it is going to take everything I  
            have. Likely including energy for sex of any kind, including blow  
            jobs  & hand jobs.  IJS.  
   
_John smiled again. He knew Sherlock would respond to that specific threat.   
   
   
             ** _I spoke with Mycroft at his office at the District Office. Short  
         version, we must take JM seriously. Will explain more later.  
         Takeaway for dinner?  --SH  
_**    
   
That night, over take-away Chinese (“Beef and Broccoli and Triple Szechuan Delight, extra spicy for Holmes? Oh Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson! We loved your band at the talent show. Our son Charles loves Boys’ Chorus! No charge! No charge!”) in front of their fireplace, Sherlock explained Mycroft’s view of Moriarty.  
   
“So you're saying that our jobs are in jeopardy, because we are living a lifestyle that some parents don’t agree with, but _not because_ we’re living a lifestyle that some parents don’t agree with, but because we suck as teachers even though we don’t suck as teachers,” John said angrily. He scrubbed his hand over his face and through his short sandy hair, unfortunately leaving a trail of Beef  & Broccoli sauce on his cheek.  
   
“Well yes, I think,” Sherlock said, trying to ignore the distraction of the sauce. “All we can do is be the best we can. We hold our heads up and don’t apologize for anything. But there is a way around this.” Finally, he couldn’t hold back. He leaned in closer and kissed John’s cheek, sensuously laving his tongue over his cheekbone to remove the sauce.  
   
John barely managed a ‘what…’ giving himself over to Sherlock’s tongue, which had worked its way over to John’s ear, tracing the shell, kissing just under the lobe, until they were both breathless.

“Wait. Wait. We… I can’t… What it is the way around it, Sherlock?” John held his lover’s face in his hands, foreheads resting together.   
   
“ _We_  take control.   _We_  choose to make it known that we are together. We force Moriarty’s hand and thus the District’s. But the downside is that  _we_  become the center of attention and not music or history and certainly not our students. And what impact does that have on the children and their education?”  
   
John thought about it, as Sherlock pulled him in close. Sitting thigh to thigh in front of the fireplace, a blanket John’s mum knitted for him years ago wrapped around them, it was an easy decision. They weren’t breaking any laws or violating anyone. They weren’t luring people into danger or even trying to recruit any one to anything other than singing.   
   
“But it’s not that easy, is it?” John said aloud, mid thought.  
   
“No. You know my preference, John. We address it once, openly and honestly, and then tell anyone who doesn’t like it to go fuck themselves. I will stay out of their homophobia if they stay out of my marriage. Relationship. I mean relationship.” Sherlock blushed from neck to ears at his misstatement.   
   
John laughed into Sherlock’s chest, but when he looked up, caught the feelings in his lover's eyes. He might not have meant to say it, but Sherlock meant what he said. How in six weeks could he know? How could he not know.   
   
“I love you, Sherlock Holmes. And if someday, you might like to ask, I might like to answer.”  
   
They sat together, holding hands, looking into the fire. As the fire died down, Sherlock folded the blanket, took the empty containers and dirty dishes to the kitchen, and returned for John. Always for John. And led him to bed.

“I don’t want our lives centering on someone hell bent on ruin, but I have a job to do. For now, I want to keep teaching,” John said in the darkness of the bedroom, curled up facing Sherlock, toes touching and his hands tracing patterns on Sherlock's chest.   
   
“Then that is what we will do,” Sherlock answered simply and was soon met with deep even breaths from John which his eventually matched.  
   
   
   
\---

 

  
Mindful of Mycroft Holmes' warning and Sherlock's reasoning, John gave the Moriarty boy a wide berth. He saw the subtle bullying in class, but it provided just enough doubt that John left it unaddressed.

It started out simply enough. Tripping a student who passed in front of him. Knocking books out of someone's arms as they jostled out the door. Joey always denied it being anything besides an accident and always with the air of a prince used to being solicitously catered to.   
   
Monday before Valentine’s Day, Principal Lestrade ducked into John’s show choir class as the bell rang to start the period.    
  
“Pay no attention to me,” he said cheerfully. “I’m just here to watch.”   
  
John knew Lestrade intended to observe the lesson; two yearly evaluations were required by the school district for new teachers. This was his second.  He heard Sherlock’s words in his mind: ‘They can’t fire us for being gay, but they can fire us for ineptitude.’  
   
John took a deep breath and slowly released it before turning back to the show choir students who were in their dance positions for “One Night in Bangkok” from  _Chess_. He choreographed it with simple movements from the Far East, easy for the students to master but looked good to the audience.   
  
John divided the song to feature four male soloists. Joey Moriarty opened the song, his voice clear and beautiful. Sean Hudson took the next section, but stumbled over singing while dancing. Several boys openly laughed, and John shut them down with a stern look. He drew Sean aside and spoke quietly, and they began from Sean’s solo again.   
  
“Better! Much better! Everyone, the dancing is perfect. Jackson, let’s hear your solo.”  
  
Just before the bell rang as the students gathered their backpacks, John called, “Please remember we are a team here. If we don’t work together, we _will_ fall apart.”  
  
As he walked toward Lestrade, he heard a student snigger, “Sean will fall apart no matter what.”  
  
“Joey,” John called out from his desk, “I forgot to return your assignment from the other day. Would you please come here?”  With no intention of returning any paper, John quietly reminded Joey that bullying would not be tolerated.  
  
“I didn’t do anything. I don’t know why you always pick on me,” Joey complained but wouldn’t look John in the eyes. Before the late bell rang, he sent Joey on his way.  
  
“As a new teacher, do you find discipline difficult?” Lestrade asked, having witnessed the exchange, his iPad open to the teacher evaluation program.  
  
“With all due respect, Mr. Lestrade, I am not new. I taught for five years in an upper school in England and then a year in Florida before I took my Masters and Doctorate. And no I don’t find discipline difficult. I speak with children alone so that they’re not embarrassed in front of their peers. I also respect them and offer opportunities in class for them to correct their own behavior.”  
  
“Some families are morevocal than others, Dr. Watson. Please be aware that these children come from involved families and involved families complain loudly, especially about how the teacher is treating their child.” John sensed that Lestrade was warning him about Moriarty. 

Fuck it, John thought. I just fuckin’ screwed us. But he couldn’t continue ignoring it, no matter what his own needs were. The safety of the students outweighed everything else. 

 

            _Will you still love me if I’m not a teacher?_

 

            **_No. I only love you because of your fat paycheck. Idiot.  –SH_**

****

John smiled.  Idiot, indeed.

 

\----

  
   
"Valentine’s Day is a societal construct created by greeting card companies and lonely hearts societies to make humans feel entitled and if, God forbid, our significant other (air quotes for John’s benefit) doesn't cave to the social pressure, it provides permission for the slighted party to sulk..."  
   
John interrupted Sherlock, who had only just started this well-rehearsed diatribe.   
“Then, I apologize for caving in to societal pressure," John didn't quite yell but didn't quite not. This was  _not_ how he expected their first Valentine’s Day to begin, especially since it would end in a hotel with hundreds of middle school Thespians.  
   
Sherlock looked at him, confused. John he handed the pale pink envelope to Sherlock, who hesitantly took it from him and opened it, as if it might contain Anthrax powder. Or worse. Pictures of hearts. Flowers. Possibly a mostly-naked Cupid.  
   
He pulled the card from the envelope. A photo of a brilliant sunrise, pink, orange, yellow, on the front.  ‘My life started when I met you’ was imprinted in the card. Sherlock took a moment to read John’s handwritten message, barely daring to breathe.  What had he done in his life to deserve John Watson?  
   
John stood, eyes wide and nervous. Would Sherlock be sarcastic? Ridiculing? Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself and then came to John, a soft kiss, one hand on John’s neck and one on his face. “I love you.”   
   
When Sherlock released John, he walked to the bookcase against the wall and opened the dictionary. Tucked inside was a pale pink envelope which he handed to John.  
   
John laughed in disbelief that Sherlock had gotten him a card. He pulled it from the envelope and saw the same photo of a brilliant sunrise, pink, orange, yellow, on the front.   
   
“This is perfect,” he said to Sherlock, whose blush rose quickly.   
   
“I had no idea, I mean, I didn’t know, and I didn’t think you would--” John cut off Sherlock’s needless apology with a kiss. A good kiss. No, a great kiss. 

“And I love you, you ridiculous man.”  
   
This time, _they_  were the ones who prevented the Thespians bus from leaving on time. Rushing to the rendezvous location, they threw themselves out of John’s barely parked car in the school parking lot. Molly laughed and pointed at her watch as they ran to the bus, looking more disheveled than a dash should have left them. In fact, they looked thoroughly shagged. And very happy. They collapsed into the front seats of the bus, giggling at their secret, and the bus left for Saint Augustine.   
   
At the hotel the JAMMS crew barely had enough time to grab their suitcases for storage at the St. Augustine Bayfront Hilton before they were whisked onto the Trolley for the day-long tour of Old Town St. Augustine.   
   
No one enjoyed the tour more than Mr. Holmes, the history teacher, although John wasn’t sure whether Sherlock enjoyed the tour or correcting the tour guide’s misinformation. (“Sherlock! Shut. Up!” Molly hissed. “You’re going to get us thrown off the tour!” The look on the guide’s face said she was right.). The students tolerated the historic sightseeing; it  _was_  better than being in class. The group explored Fort Matanzas and arrived at the Castillo de San Marco in time for the firing of the cannons. What they didn’t tolerate quite as well were Sherlock’s interminable lectures. John elbowed him to cut him off. Eventually the guide gave up and allowed Sherlock to lead the tour.  
   
The kids agreed that the best parts of the tour were the shrunken heads in the museum and the souvenir shopping at the end, especially the candy store. John, whose face had sunburned during the tour, pressed gingerly on his red nose.  
   
“Shoot. I never thought I’d need suntan lotion in February,” John groused, looking in the mirror on the spinner rack that held hats.  
   
“Perhaps you need a hat?” Sherlock said innocently, plunking a wide brimmed straw hat on John’s head.  
   
“Is this my Valentine’s Day gift?” he asked quietly, but with obvious snark.  
   
“No, not at all,” Sherlock said as he removed the straw hat, exchanging it for a baseball cap with long floppy black dog ears.   
   
“Now you think I’m Goofy?!”  
   
“No, a Disney character is too wholesome for you,” Sherlock agreed, laughing and enjoying this too much. John wouldn’t acknowledge it was funny at all. “How about this one? ‘Boi Toy’. Yes. This is it!”    
   
Sherlock quickly snapped a picture of John in the neon pink baseball cap before John could take it off and hit him with it. They were happy. Content. In love. Molly Hooper noticed it; Honey Hudson nudged her, and the two women sighed.   
   
That night, after the pep rally and several group drama presentations, the banquet ("Dear God! Did we not JUST do all of this?!" Sherlock hissed to Molly during the dinner speeches. She shushed him angrily, but Siobhan caught his eyes and nodded solemnly in agreement), all of the students were locked into their rooms under penalty of death ("Or WORSE," Molly hissed again, the stress really not agreeing with her, "I. Will. Pull. You. From. Competition." Not a single child doubted her.)  Good Molly. Kind Molly. Molly the Amazing had been so good and kind to insure that John and Sherlock's room didn't adjoin any of JAMMS students’.  
  
Once they were also locked in, Sherlock dropped onto the bed. He must have nodded off for a second because John had disappeared. Sherlock heard the shower running, but it was turned off almost immediately. Honestly. He’d never known anyone who took showers as quickly as John Watson.   
   
“Thank God this day is over,” Sherlock said as he heard the bathroom door open and felt some of the steam drift into the room. “How do I allow you talk me into these things, John?”  
   
“Will you allow me talk you into this?” John asked, freshly showered, his hair combed back, but small rivulets of water running down his neck. Looking at John wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, Sherlock knew he needed to press his lips to the water on John’s neck. To taste him. Between his shoulder blades. At the crease of his thighs. The exhaustion that overwhelmed Sherlock moments ago was forgotten.  
   
“Yes. You can talk me into anything,” Sherlock said, standing as John walked to the bed holding a soft-sided cooler from his suit case. “What do you have?”  
   
John smiled and kissed Sherlock. “Go shower. We were outside all day, and you’ll feel better and moreenergetic.” With another lingering kiss and a Happy Valentine’s Day, Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom.  
   
Under the hot water, Sherlock imagined John’s hands on him, slick with soap, exploring his body, scraping his nipples, stroking his already swollen cock, sliding down the cleft between his cheeks and stopping at his …  
  
Sherlock interrupted that fantasy in time to hold back his orgasm that threatened to overtake him.  Wash your Arms. Face. Both safe areas. Neck. Hair. Rinse. Good. He had tamed his body for now.  
   
He toweled dry and then wrapped it around his waist. Sherlock opened the bathroom door and stepped near the beds, ruffling dry his hair with the towel.

  
“God I love that,” John said, his voice thick. “When you do that to your hair, it’s so fucking hot.”  
   
Sherlock looked out from under the towel on his hair. John had transformed the room for them. The iPod played a song from the playlist they had created together. Songs they loved, that were special to them or that moved them with desire. On the bed he’d laid out a picnic of Sherlock's favorite treats. Crescent shaped almond cookies. Wafer-thin squares of dark chocolate. Large ripe strawberries. Two fluted glasses and peeking out of the hotel's ice bucket, the unmistakable cork of a champagne bottle.   
   
Sherlock moved away from the steam of the bathroom further into the room. The music wrapped around Sherlock, embracing him. He closed his eyes and swayed with the rhythm. John came to him, and they danced. They didn’t move from the spot but that didn't matter. The closeness of their bodies, their hearts beating together. That mattered.   
  
Sherlock sang in John's ear,  
   
             _I fall in love too easily  
            I fall in love too fast  
            I fall in love too terribly hard  
            For love to ever last  
_    
An old Frank Sinatra song that his mum and dad had danced to at night, in front of the fire, when they thought he and Mycoft were asleep. Almost 50 years they’ve been married. He saw the way his dad still looked at his mum. His world was her and all that she was. Sometimes, he thought John looked at him the same way.  
   
Sherlock pressed his body against John’s, stealing a kiss. Was it stealing if John desperately wanted it taken? The kiss was sensual and slow as they danced, one song drifting into another as they moved with and against each other. Their bodies wanted more; holding back made them need more.  
   
John broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “Let’s uh—eat something before it—uh…”  
   
“Yes, before we…” Sherlock agreed breathlessly. John took his hand and led him to the bed.  “You packed my favorites!”  
   
“I brought a split of champagne,” John said as he uncorked the small bottle and poured the sparkling wine between the two long-stemmed glasses. “I know we _can’t_ drink, and I don’t even want to tempt fate…” John dipped a generous, ripe strawberry into the wine and swirled slowly. “But taste this.”  
   
He reached up to Sherlock’s mouth, holding the berry as Sherlock swirled his tongue along the tip before sheathing it with his lips. The bite left strawberry champagne on Sherlock’s lips; John brushed his tongue over the skin, borrowing back his kiss.  
   
“This is decadent. Have some,” and Sherlock dipped a berry into the wine for John. (Even years later, neither would be able to taste strawberries without sighing or kissing.)  
   
Slowly, between languorous kisses and caresses, they tasted each of the foods. They indulged in small sips of the champagne, deciding it tasted the very best with the chocolate. Sherlock reached for the last crescent cookie and jostled John’s arm as he lifted the glass to his mouth. The wine spilled down his chin and neck.   
   
“I’m so sorry, John,” Sherlock said, worried he had angered John.  
   
“Don’t be sorry,” John whispered. “Lick it up.” 

Sherlock’s tongue followed rivulets of wine. He kissed the corner of John’s mouth, and then traced the wine down John’s chin and neck with nips and healing kisses.    
   
“I think it spilled down my chest too,” John said, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. Sherlock paused a moment to slide the plates together and moved it all to the dresser so there would be more room for him to love John. To worship John.  
   
Sherlock reclined John onto the bed, kissing gently at first but then more passionately. As John pressed his knee between Sherlock’s legs, Sherlock untied John’s towel and left it under him as he licked down John’s chest following the sparse hair below his navel to the soft hair around his cock.  
   
John gasped at Sherlock’s warm breath on his hard cock. Christ, it had been hard for so long. “Sherlock, if you suck me, I’m going to come right now. I’m too close.”  
   
“I don’t want that,” Sherlock answered, kneeling between John’s legs and looking into his eyes.   
   
Sherlock stood up and retrieved a bag from his suitcase. “I took the liberty of purchasing this earlier this week.” He handed the bag to John. “I find romantic words difficult John. When we—make love,” his blush traveled up his chest. John eyes never left Sherlock’s as he talked, but his hands slowly unknotted Sherlock’s towel. “When we make love I feel so close to you, and I see your face, the pleasure. I want you to…to…I want you inside _me_ , John. I want to be that close to you.”  
   
Sherlock’s towel pooled on the floor, his cock showing the truth of his words. John stood and hugged Sherlock fiercely. “I’m good on the bottom Sherlock. Don’t do this because you think I want you to, because I love what we have.” His hands stroked Sherlock’s ample ass as he spoke, kissing his chest.  
   
Sherlock’s answer was simple. He brought John’s hand to his mouth and swirled his tongue around the middle finger, sucking it into his mouth and then releasing it as he again swirled his tongue over the tip. He lay on the bed, his eyes locked on John’s, and spread his legs.   
   
John opened the bag Sherlock had handed him. Condoms (“A blog said a condom would make entry easier, if the bottom hasn’t done it before”) and lubricant.  
   
“Sherlock, I have never received a better gift,” John growled, as he rolled the condom down his shaft. Sherlock grabbed the tube of lubricant out of the bag and squirted some onto his palm. He reached out to stroke John’s cock, coating it thickly. John hummed into it, grabbing Sherlock’s hand for a moment to trace his middle finger down the slick palm.   
   
For the first time, John whirled his finger over Sherlock’s hole, listening to the quiet noises telling him it was good. Very good. John whispered that he was going to enter Sherlock with the finger, but Sherlock said, “Two. Use two.”  
   
With more lube, John slowly slid to fingers in afraid of hurting Sherlock. Twisting. Pulling out, pushing back in. Sherlock pushed back against John’s hand, torn between the slight pain and the slow pleasure. Another finger, more pleasure mixed with pain.  
   
“Baby, if I keep doing this, I’m going to come,” John said in between long kisses of tongues and teeth, biting shoulders and nipples. “And I really don’t want to do that.” Sherlock responded something between a moan and an assent.   
   
John slicked his cock with more lube and lined it up with Sherlock’s entrance. He knew it was going to hurt. Sherlock’s hole—God, it would be so fucking tight—would hurt him and then Sherlock would never want to bottom again.  
   
“John, just fuck me!” and Sherlock snapped his hips up and the head of John’s cock slipped through the tight ring of muscles. They both moaned as John pushed further, stopping to let Sherlock relax and breathe.   
   
With Sherlock’s legs thrown over John’s shoulders, he tried to keep his thrusts slow and even, focusing more on finding the right angle that would make Sherlock moan. Delaying the thrusting was gloriously maddening, until Sherlock cried out.  
   
“HolyChristwhatthefuckwasthat do it again do it again.”  
   
John huffed out a laugh and rolled his hips at the same angle, again and again, knowing from the tightness in his balls that, between Sherlock’s exquisite sounds, the tightness of his ass, he wasn’t going to hold out much longer. And he didn’t want to. He reached for Sherlock’s hand and slicked it with his spit, and brought it to Sherlock’s cock. He mirrored John’s rhythm and almost simultaneously the two men fell. John smiled at Sherlock, whose eyes reflected John’s feelings.   
   
John rolled off Sherlock and padded to the bathroom, returning with a warm wash cloth. Gently he swabbed Sherlock’s bottom, soothing whatever discomfort there might be. Then he grabbed a towel from the floor to tidy themselves.  
   
He budged Sherlock over and slid them under the covers of the bed. The music had long since stopped, and John found the remote for the speakers and restarted the playlist.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, love.” John snuggled up next to Sherlock, who drew as close as he could without being actually atop John.  (“Well, at least not right now,” John said. “I’m gonna need maybe 20 minutes!”)  
   
When the iPhone alarm sounded at 7am, they had trifled the night away, talking about things they’d never discussed. Old flames (“yes, 3 Continents Watson, but I’m not sure the 3rd continent counts, since we were in an out-of-service loo just over the border into Morocco.”) New love (“I’ve never felt about anyone like I do about you, John.”). Dreams for the future (“Yeah, maybe teach at a uni, but not a lot of call for a specialty in Florida history outside of, well, Florida.”). Their beach vacation in just four weeks (“No, not on the beach, because sand hurts if it gets in places it doesn’t belong, Sherlock.”) They’d lavished kisses and love on each other, and in truth, neither regretted foregoing sleep.   
 

When the left their room at 8am, they left the lovers John and Sherlock inside and became Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes, colleagues. Honey Hudson caught up with them in the hallway. “Did you have a lovely Valentine’s Day? I saw y’all in the shops yesterday. Don’t bother denying anything to me.” She gave them a quick hug, laughing at their still very wet hair. “Y’all are adorable, and we love you.”

“If only everyone were so supportive,” John said lightly.

“Don’t you worry. Plenty of parents feel like Matthew and I do.” She blew them a kiss and caught up with her kids and Ms. Hooper.

With friends like the Hudsons, they were in great shape.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, Sean, Siobhan and Hudson all rank "superior" at the state tournament!
> 
> MPA's = Music Performance Assessments. Concert choirs opt to perform for judges and are ranked up to superior. They are judged against a group of criteria, rather than against other schools.


	10. Spring Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaving Sally Donovan and their toxic workplace behind, John and Sherlock's beach vacation has finally come, a time where they do not have to pretend to be simply friends. They can be open and honest about their relationship, because no one is around who will know them. Or so they thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **thank you for your patience. Life got in the way of this chapter. Plus the sweet little filler chapter took on a life of its own (including ugliness).
> 
> **221btls, I am forever indebted to your nurturing. 
> 
> **"So Long, Farewell" is from the amazing Broadway smash, The Sound of Music, written by Rogers & Hammerstein.  
> **Disney Cruise Lines, while it does sail from Port Canaveral, does not leave on Fridays :)  
> **Any similarities between Sanibel Island Resort and a proper hotel is a coincidence!  
> **I apologize in advance for homophobia, but it is important to the story and sadly, relevant in our world. No H8.

“Sherlock. It’s 78 degrees right now. You  _can_  go to school—to work, I mean—in something besides a suit. It’s allowed,” John chastised Sherlock. In Florida, some hearty souls _never_ swap out their summer clothes, opting to wear shorts and tank tops through the scant few weeks of winter. Spring begins in February, and by mid-March the days heat to temperatures the rest of the country will not see for months. “And given that it’s going to be 90 today, you should!”  
    
“The day I dress like you,” Sherlock snorted derisively at John’s standard Friday uniform of knee length shorts, deck shoes, and an open collar polo shirt, “is the day that I resign teaching.”  
   
“Let loose, you great git. You won’t crack if you show them you’re human once in a while." John sidled up to Sherlock, and wound his arms around his lover’s waist. “I could help you change out of these clothes--” He looked up, through his eyelashes in the way he knew made Sherlock’s insides soft and his cock hard, and wound his hand around Sherlock’s neck. He grazed his lips with the promise of delicious things to come.

Sherlock remained unmoved. “Our spring hols begin in eight hours. Tonight we will be ensconced in our beautiful hotel room, enjoying each other’s company in many ways. Could I convince you to pretend you’re a professional for eight hours, possibly wearing something appropriate?”  

John laughed, grabbed his backpack/briefcase and opened the front door for Sherlock who strolled elegantly through, wearing his Saville Row suit and carrying his leather briefcase, still bursting with student papers.  
   
“Do you ever actually return those?” John pointed at the papers sticking out in of the briefcase in all directions. “You’re always grading papers, but the briefcase never gets any thinner.” He looked horrified and said, “You are not. I repeat.  **Are. Not.** Bringing that on vacation.”   
   
Sherlock opened his mouth, but before he could respond, John cut him off. “It’s me or the briefcase.” And again, before Sherlock could respond, John laughed and warned, “You only have one chance to get this right. Please think carefully.”  
   
“No John, I had no such intention. I would never bring anything as important as this on a beach vacation. Only unimportant things,” Sherlock laughed.  
   
“Blond boyfriends?”  
   
“Exactly. Wait. Perhaps that did not come out right,” Sherlock backpedaled, still laughing, as they opened the garage. With a churrrp of the Jag’s alarm, they opened the doors, storing their bags in trunk, and Sherlock backed out of the driveway for the brief trip to the middle school.  
   
Before they entered the school’s main office, Sherlock whispered, “All of those things you were thinking in the kitchen?” John nodded.  “Me too. In 8 hours.” He cocked an eyebrow at John, and after logging into the district's attendance program, Sherlock headed for his classroom. He looked over his shoulder and winked. John smiled brilliantly and followed the sidewalk to the Chorus room.    
   
The day dragged. The students hit every wrong note possible. They fudged the recitation of every Constitutional amendment possible. Their bodies were in the classroom, but their minds were gone, gone, gone.

Finally at 4 pm, when the bell rang to start Spring Break, it was hard to tell whether the students or the teachers were more excited. John sang,  
   
             _So Long! Farewell! Auf Weidersehn Goodbye!_  
 _Adieu! To you! And you and you and you!_  
   
   
Molly came through the adjoining door. “You are a little too happy!” she laughed, watching him clog step as he sang.  
   
“We are heading to the beach as soon as--” John looked around, making sure they were alone, “I can get him away from his desk. I made him promise he would leave his briefcase here.” He laughed at Molly’s shocked face. “The price of that promise was steep, I assure you!”  
   
“What price?” Sally Donovan strolled through the adjoining hallway door from the drama room, obviously looking for Molly. Although the school year was three quarters finished, it was Sally’s first time in the chorus room. John realized months ago that she disliked him; he just had no idea what he had done.

“John got Sherlock to agree to leave his briefcase here over break,” Molly giggled.   
   
“Are you sure he’s not going to have some kind of nervous breakdown?” Sally laughed, but not with Molly’s sweetness. “You’d think it had the nuclear codes in it, the way he’s always carrying it around. He’s such a _freak_ about that briefcase.”  
   
Something about the way she spit the word  _freak_  crawled up under John’s skin. He took a deep breath and said, “He takes his work seriously--”  
   
“No shit,” she said to Molly, laughing again.   
   
“Sally, I don’t know what he’s done to you. I don’t know why you hate him so much, but give it a rest.” At Molly’s outburst, John’s jaw dropped.   
   
“He didn’t _do_ anything to me. He’s just fucking weird. And he thinks he’s better than everyone else--”  
   
“He goddamn well is, Sally. At least _he_ doesn’t talk about people behind their backs like you do,” John clenched and unclenched his right hand. “If you had half the balls you think you do, you’d say it  _to_  him instead of about him.”  
   
“That’s right, Watson. Defend your lover boy,” she said, as she flipped him off. “Molly, I’m leaving. If  _you_  still want to go out for that drink, I’ll be at Fitzpatrick’s.” She turned abruptly and walked back through the connector hall, her long dark curls bouncing against her back as her shoes pounded on the tile floor.  
   
“He’s not a freak, Molly,” John began, searching her eyes for understanding.  
   
“Anyone who’s taken time to know him knows that, John,” she said, shaking her head. “He doesn’t have a lot of friends here, but I think people are more neutral about him than dislike him.”  
   
Molly hugged John. “Have a great time at the beach. Enjoy yourselves, and for God’s sake, use protection. We don’t need another pregnant teacher here!” She walked away, giggling.   
   
John rolled his eyes and laughed as he hid the CD player and electric piano in the walk-in storage closet, moving the choir robes out of the way to reach the shelves.  
   
“They say laughing to one’s self is a sign of the onset of insanity,” a deep voice drifted in to John.   
   
“Onset? I’ve lived with you for 5 months,” John smiled, his eyes crinkling with happiness. “I’m sure I’m well past onset by now.” Sherlock met him in the storage room and wrapped his arms around John’s waist. The space between their bodies wasn’t air as it had been so often in John’s relationships. Flush with love, the space extended one man’s self to the other, anchoring them, finding each other in the void.  
   
Sherlock leaned his head down slightly, brushing his lips over John’s. “Can I kiss you here,” he asked.  
   
“On my lips?”  
   
Sherlock huffed out a small laugh. “You are an idiot. I meant in here. At school.”  
   
Their laughter together came as easily as their conversations and arguments and lovemaking. John answered, bringing his mouth near Sherlock’s, nuzzling before kissing him deeply. In tune, their bodies responded to the slightest touch, the smallest kiss. Sherlock pressed his erection against John’s. “I can’t wait to get to the beach. Perhaps we should…”  
   
“Watson, have you seen…Oh. My. God.” Sally Donovan stood with one hand on the storage room door and one covering her mouth. John dropped his hands from Sherlock’s waist, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him withdraw. He found John’s hand and held it tightly. “What the fuck are you doing? I knew it. I knew you were gay for each other. Keep that shit in your bedroom. Not here at school. And in a fucking **_closet_**?” Her voice rose louder with each indictment. “You are a fucking cliché.”  
   
“Miss Donovan. We are adults. and I ask that you treat us as such,” Sherlock said calmly, in stark contrast to Sally. “Otherwise we are no better than the children we teach.”  
   
She lost no steam despite the interruption. “You’re lucky Lestrade or Adler didn’t find you. I don’t even know what they would have done.” Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.  “Shut up, freak. Don’t talk to me. You make me sick.” She stalked out, slamming the storage room door, leaving John and Sherlock in momentary darkness.  
   
Tears welled in John’s eyes. “Oh God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I should have defended us.”  
  
“You know as well as I do that there is nothing we can ever say that will change how bigots think, John.” Sherlock dabbed a small tear at the corner of John’s eye, and offered him the handkerchief he kept in his suit pocket. “I understand if you would like to cancel the trip.”  
   
“What? No!” He kissed Sherlock quickly, “This doesn’t matter. I just…I’ve never been hated like that before.”  
   
“Consider yourself lucky, John. There is a great deal of hate in this world. Even though it is 2014, we have not changed much as a society.” Sherlock straightened his suit jacket and turned back to John. Cradling John’s face with his hands, Sherlock said, “This place is toxic. We have earned a holiday week. Let’s leave here now.”  
   
Initially, Sherlock intended to stop at the house only long enough to retrieve the two suitcases packed with beach clothes and other items they felt they’d need over the next six days. However, he parked the car in the driveway, and when he exited, he withdrew his iPhone from his pocket and turned his back to the car. He replaced the phone and walked around to the passenger’s side to open the door for John.   
   
“Without consulting you, I have altered our original plan. I contacted the hotel to alert them that we would be arriving several hours later than we had intended,” he told John, who slid out of the car.  
   
“Thank you,” John said simply, unsure whether to be angry at Sherlock’s insouciance or relieved at the short break. He needed to de-stress before starting their vacation.  
   
Sherlock stepped aside for John to pass, closing the car door with a solid thud and locking it. When they no longer had to hide their relationship, Sherlock knew he would kiss John as he exited the car. He would embrace him here in the driveway in view of the neighbors and simply stare into John’s blue eyes. Hold John’s hand as they walked into the house.   
   
“May 28 th, John,” Sherlock said as he unlocked the house’s front door. John furrowed his eyebrows in question. “In 10 weeks I will no longer hide my affection for you when we are in public. When school is over, we will be free to show others how we feel, when and if we so desire.”  
   
“Do you mean like now?”  
   
“I mean ‘like always’,” Sherlock answered, smiling at John’s syntax. “But I will wait the requisite 10 weeks. For now, though, please take your shoes off.” He pointed to John’s feet. “Or I could do that for you, if you prefer.”  
   
John exhaled, a deep breath in and out. And another. He toed off his shoes and pushed them toward the front door with his right foot. Taking Sherlock’s outstretched hand, John followed him through the house and out the rear French doors to the pool deck. John sat in one of the webbed chairs at the wrought iron table.  
   
“I will be back in a moment,” Sherlock said, disappearing into the house. John soaked up the warm, late afternoon sun, thinking about the day he sat here with Sherlock, nursing a hangover and being convinced to move in.  
   
When Sherlock returned, he wore clothes similar to John’s: bare feet, knee length madras plaid shorts, and a sky blue Polo shirt. John marveled at the color of the shirt, perfectly mirroring the color of Sherlock’s eyes.  
   
“Legs?”  
   
“Yes, John,” Sherlock said derisively. “This is an appropriate time and place for shorts, unlike a workplace.” He again took John’s hand and led him to the edge of the pool. 

Sherlock dipped the toes of his right foot into the crystal water, and judging the temperature acceptable, lowered himself onto the brick edge of the pool and immersed both of his legs. “Come on then. Sit down.”

John also immersed both legs. “This is nice! Why isn’t it freezing?”

“Emma Hudson, when she rudely interrupted us over Christmas hols, decided that we weren’t using the pool enough, and added a heat pump to the system.” Sherlock let the words sink in, until John understood the full meaning.

“We can skinny dip in January?!” Sherlock nodded with a smile as wide as John’s, and both turned to giggles.

Sherlock knew the rules. No public displays of affection outside of the house. But at that moment, sitting at the pool’s edge, their legs drifting in small circles in the water sliding over each other’s, he kissed John. Sherlock rubbed John’s back, mirroring the motion of their legs. He rested his chin on John’s shoulder and his forehead on John’s clipped blond hair. “Maybe we live in the wrong place,” he said. “Maybe we should live in a city where we would be more anonymous or where gay relationships are more acceptable.”

“But this is your home now, Sherlock,” John said quietly. Something in him, a small voice, nipping at the edges of rational thought, said ‘you did this to him, John. You caused this.’

“You are my home. Not concrete blocks and wood. Not a job. Not a career. There are many things at which I would excel. _We_ matter. Nothing else.”

John looked at Sherlock and read the conviction in every line of his body.  This man, who graded papers virtually every minute, who spent hours researching his lessons, who didn’t think John knew about the book he was writing on cowboy culture in Florida…this man would give it all up for John. For them.

“Sherlock, if we don’t leave now, I will take you to bed right in this house, and I will not let you up for the entire holiday.” He buried his head in Sherlock’s neck, the scent of new sweat and his posh soap and shampoo filling his mind, settling in. John tilted his head and Sherlock leaned in to kiss him.

"Hello?” a female voice called from the screen door on the side of the pool enclosure. John and Sherlock jumped away from each other, placing themselves respectably apart from each other.

“I figured out about you two,” Honey Hudson laughed as she came through the screen door. “You don’t need to move apart.”

A friendly face. A friend. 

“I came by to ask a favor,” Honey said, hopefully. 

Sherlock opened his mouth, but John cut him off, explaining they would be away. Honey told them about the cruise they were going leaving on tomorrow (“Disney Cruise Line! The kids will be in heaven, and we can be alone!”), and they told her about their week at Sanibel. She left with a wave and a cheery, “Don’t get sunburned!” 

Mood broken, Sherlock grabbed their suitcases and stored them in the back seat of his car. Pool heater off. Doors and windows locked. Garage door closed. John chose XM’s Broadway radio station (a compromise—he really couldn’t listen to '80s music for the four hour drive.) and put his head back. He sang along quietly, sometimes with Sherlock joining in. 

Their stress melted as they put Lake Jesup behind them. John reached across the console to hold Sherlock’s right hand, twining his fingers with Sherlock’s long slender ones. John’s thumb traced lazy circles on the soft, pale skin. 

Just before Sherlock exited the Interstate for Sanibel Island, the Broadway station played a song from “Spring Awakening.” 

John looked over to Sherlock, smiling softly. “I love this song.”

“I will always love this song,” Sherlock answered, taking his eyes from the road for the briefest moment. “Forever, it will remind me of the most important day in my life; the day I met Dr. John Watson.”

John raised the back of Sherlock’s hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly. “Yeah. What you said.” How could people not see the goodness in this man? It took a bit of work, but weren’t good things worth it?  He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, saying ‘I love you’ with that motion.

Ten minutes later, as they navigated the roads between exiting I-75 and actually arriving on Sanibel, John took back. Every. Single. One. Of the nice thoughts he had about his beloved. 

“Stop being an ass and just check the damn GPS, Sherlock.”

“If you had any sense of direction we wouldn’t be lost, John.” 

Right hand clenched. Unclenched. Clenched. Unclenched as John debated the number of years for Justifiable Homicide. 

Before John could move his hand to that long, slender neck (‘wouldn’t have much tensile strength…’), Sherlock made another wrong turn and wound up at the right spot, the Sanibel Causeway. “Pay the $6 toll, John,” Sherlock said, not responsible for such mundane things as money.

John huffed, opened his wallet and pulled out enough money. It was one step closer to their week (a _very_ long week? John wondered) in paradise.  
    
The Sanibel Island Resort had none of the glamour of a high end hotel chain, but offered charm and personality. When John stepped to the registration desk, the elderly woman recognized his name immediately. "Dr. Watson Holmes, welcome! And congratulations!"  
   
Clearly confused, John turned to Sherlock, who stepped forward to intervene.

In his thickest posh British accent he said, “Good day, madam. I am Sherlock Holmes Watson. We spoke on the mobile a fortnight past."  
   
“Congratulations to you, also. And welcome to our state! I trust your flight wasn't too long!” She gushed over the two men, coming around from behind the desk to hug them. “I’m sure coming right here after the wedding you must be ready for a nap," she winked at them. "Always happy to welcome newlyweds to Sanibel. I've taken the liberty of upgrading you to one of our private cottages," she smiled so kindly at them, her eyes twinkling in delight, "Nicer for midnight strolls and the possibility of skinny dipping after the stroll. Also, this way if your honeymoon sex is too loud, we won't get calls from other patrons."  
   
"Ta," John answered weakly, caught between shock and riotous laughter. "I’ll let y’all finish this. Good night, Miz Caroline," John said reverting to his gentle southern accent that he'd developed living in Florida.   
   
“Oh dear, Dr. Watson-Holmes. That is a terrible southern accent. Please don't…don’t do that again. Here are your room keys," she said to Sherlock. In a loud whisper she added, "You should know sound carries at night, if you know what I mean."  
   
"Oh I do, Miss Caroline." Sherlock smiled and winked at the wicked woman. As they left the office. Sherlock said, "Dr. Watson-Holmes, who is going to carry whom over the threshold?" Miss Caroline laughed loudly, but John shook his bowed head in embarrassment.  
   
“What was that all about?!” John demanded once they were back in the Jaguar driving to the satellite parking area closest to the cottages.  
   
“I may have implied...”  
  
“That we were newlyweds just in from London?! Why Sherlock? Why?”   
   
“Evaluating the probability of an upgraded room based on good will and kindness, I took the opportunity to assert that we had celebrated our nuptials…”

John cut him off. “You lied to that kind, old lady and told her we were getting married so we could get better rooms?” John almost shouted, as he exited the car.

“Keep your voice down. Sound carries at night, if you remember?” Sherlock winked at him, and John’s indignation broke down into laughter. “I wanted you all to myself, if you must know.”

“Fine,” John smiled, pleased at Sherlock’s sweet intention. “But no one is carrying anyone over the threshold.”

They were quiet that cool first evening, walking barefoot in the sand and stopping to test the temperature of the water. Sherlock _may_ have nudged John with his hip as they walked, causing him to stumble and land on his ass in the Gulf water.

“Goodness, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock said innocently. “Your shorts are wet. You really should remove them as soon as possible to avoid catching a cold.” He offered a hand to help John up, but when John took hold, he caught Sherlock off guard, yanking him down into the water. 

“Really, Mr. Holmes?” 

“Indeed,” Sherlock laughed, now equally as wet. “I can help you with that.” He led John back into their cottage, turning the lights off as they made their way to the bedroom.

 

If John had visions of sitting on the beach and whiling away time reading or lounging in the warmth of the day, Sherlock disabused him of that notion quickly.  “I believe we will be best to wear jeans on today’s walk…” John raised his eyebrows in his ‘what the fuck’ face. “Do not be obtuse John. You must have seen the schedule of events before booking this vacation. Today at 10, we will be taking a 2 mile walking tour analyzing the plants and trees of this freshwater ecosystem. Unless you prefer to do that tomorrow and we can take the ‘Nature’s Pollinators & Plant Walk’ today.”

John sighed and changed into jeans, grabbing the bug spray before he and Sherlock walked out the door.  “Leave your phone here, Sherlock. Lock it in the safe or the Jag if you need to, but I’m not budging on this. You can check your phone at night, but during the day, you are mine.”

John held his hand out; surprisingly, Sherlock did not argue. “A very fair trade,” he said, handing his phone over. John, who had expected a row, thanked him and locked the phones in the trunk of the car.

 

\-----

 While John and Sherlock observed plants and trees on the West Coast of Florida, the Hudson family (and one grandmother) grabbed their suitcases from the car and headed through the parking lot at Port Canaveral on the East Coast. They sang Disney songs as they marched along, through security and up the gangplank into the new Disney cruise ship. Kiera looked for princesses and pointed out all the pretty women she saw, certain they were incognito.  Sean and his dad truly appreciated her efforts. 

By 4 pm, as the ship pulled away from the dock, the Hudsons were dancing and singing at the Sail Away party on deck. The three children sipped Virgin Bahama Mamas in plastic coconut glasses, and the three adults sipped something more grown up. The Sail Away party led to dinner and discussions of their vacation plans.

Sean interrupted his Mom and said, “We have the best vacation. Most of my friends are staying home. Joey and his parents are going to some stupid resort over in Sanibel...” 

Honey’s throat went dry. “Sanibel? The Sanibel Island Resort?” 

“Yeah. It’s gonna be so boring. There’s a nature conservancy right there,” Sean rolled his eyes. “His parents are gonna make him go on nature walks and stuff instead of something awesome like a water slide over the ocean!” He and Siobhan talked about the water slide and how many times they would go on it. Kiera pointed out princesses.

“What’s wrong, Honey?” Emma asked, leaning her head in closer to her daughter-in-law’s.

“ _John and Sherlock_ are going to Sanibel Island Resort. This is _bad_. And I can’t even reach them. We’re too far from shore for the phones to work.” 

Matthew’s suggestion of emailing from the internet café eased her mind a little. But when Kiera pinched the waiter’s behind and squealed in laughter, Honey lost the thought.

 

\-----

 

After the walking tour that stretched to three hours, thanks to Sherlock’s questions, after showering away three hours of sweat and the stink of bug spray, after treating their bug bites with anti-itch cream, John suggested a take-away lunch from the Resort’s dining room. Sherlock felt it best to agree.

John returned with a selection of cheese and crackers as well as fresh fruit. He kissed Sherlock to apologize for his ill temper and sent him outside to set up the beach umbrella and chairs. They sat in the shade, and John fed Sherlock lunch as they read books and tawdry grocery store magazines.

The evenings passed beautifully, blissfully with warm Gulf breezes embracing them as they strolled the beach at sunset. After their meal they napped or sat in beach chairs, sometimes bringing them to the water's edge to let the waves lap at their feet while they spoke softly about their pasts and their future. 

Late one evening, well after midnight, they were the lone couple on the beach. Sherlock had spread a blanket on the sand, and he and John lay on their backs, snuggled in close, John’s head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. They looked at the stars; Sherlock identified the constellations and explained the myths behind the names. John closed his eyes, feeling the rumble of Sherlock’s chest under his hand or the sweet timbre of that voice washing over him, settling in his ears. His fingers trembled on Sherlock’s chest, wanting more from this night.

Sherlock turned to John. “That constellation—with the brightest star?—is Lyra. It is said that Orpheus’ music and his lyre were so important to him, that upon Orpheus’ death, Apollo placed the lyre in the heavens for eternity.” He stroked John’s cheek and lowered his lips toward John’s. “I have always loved that story, but I never knew that music would become so profoundly important to my life.”

John slid his hand behind Sherlock’s neck, drawing him closer. He murmured something that Sherlock didn’t hear, but it didn’t matter to either of them. The press of lips, warm breath against cool skin in the late evening. Whispers of ‘I love you so much,’ and hands caressing clothing. Too many clothes. Again.                                                                  

Sherlock broke away and brought a blanket from the tote bag he’d brought from the cottage. Covered, they dared to remove their shirts, hands over skin, now warmer from the blanket and their touches.

“What else is in that bag?” John asked, taking longer than a sentence that short should have, asking between kisses and pleasure.

“I have some lube. I had thought possibly…” 

“Yes,” John whispered, because sound carried on the beach. “Please.’

John fumbled with Sherlock’s shorts, unzipping them clumsily with only one hand. He stroked his warmed palm against the swell. Sherlock’s breath hitched, and he stopped moving his hands toward the bag, waiting for John to touch him again and again. 

“Give me the tube,” John said through kisses to Sherlock’s chest and neck. Sherlock focused long enough to complete that task, but lost himself in John’s touch. 

John withdrew his own aching cock and traced down its length with a line of the cool lubricant. He brought Sherlock’s hand to brush it through the slickness, and Sherlock took his lead, stroking. John mewled at the pressure up and down, the slide over the head and back down the shaft. John’s hand searched out Sherlock, their fists moving slowly up and back down. He needed to hear Sherlock’s tiny noises; the sounds he made only for John were the music that had become so profoundly important to his life. 

John smiled as he heard Sherlock’s breath gasp, knowing he was close. He slid his hand over Sherlock’s, edging it out of the way, so John could grasp both cocks in his slick hand.  He kissed Sherlock’s neck again and again, biting, licking, as they fucked the hole his hand has made. Sherlock moaned and threw back his head, calling out John’s name as he shuddered, his orgasm spilling over John’s fist. He lay his forehead against John’s hair, breathing in the scents of sweat and come. His breath tickled John’s neck, almost uncomfortable but still pleasurable.

“Come for me, love.” Sherlock’s voice, thick and soft, caressed John. He fisted his cock furiously as he bruised Sherlock’s chest with his teeth and lips, marking him as his own.

“You are mine, no one else’s,” John rasped.

“Always,” Sherlock said, and John’s orgasm crashed over him, his come mingling with Sherlock’s on his fist.

When the air under the blanket turned stale and the semen cooled on John’s belly, they brought the cover below their chin to breathe in the coolness. Sherlock cleaned John’s belly with a corner of the blanket. “I believe we could benefit from a shower right now,” Sherlock suggested. 

John thought that sounded perfect.

The days passed in a haze of suntan lotion and naps lounging by the pool; swimming in the Gulf water or floating on rafts. Although, after the third day on rafts, John no longer trusted Sherlock. He knew at some point, when John had achieved Zen-like calm, Sherlock would overturn John. He never knew quite when or how. But John Watson was a quick study.

“No, I will not float with you today, Sherlock,” John said the day before they were leaving for home. “If you like, I will go with you to the pool, _if_ you promise not to push me under the water.” 

“I had no idea you were a chicken, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock said, the cottage door slapping the frame behind him. He carried a towel and a book, his phone long forgotten in the trunk.

“Did you just ‘cluck’ at me?” John struggled to lock the cottage door, his arms filled with the cooler, his towel, his book, and the bag with the sunscreen and hats.

“I do not believe so. I believe it would be characterized more as a brrrrrawk! Brrrrrawk!”

“Why do I love you? Do you know?” John laughed. “Because I surely don’t. I guess I’m just too chicken.”

The pool deck chairs were sparsely filled. They chose two together with a table in between for their drinks and books. John sat down and removed his t-shirt and flipped his sandals off and over the bottom of the lounge chair.

“Come on, love. Take your shirt off and let me put this sunscreen on you. I refuse to listen to you complain again about a sunburn,” John said, taking the tube of sunscreen from his bag and squirting a dollop in his palm.

Surprisingly, without complaint, Sherlock removed his shirt. John rubbed the thick sunscreen over his shoulders and neck, his back and arms. He covered the areas gently, lovingly and when he finished, John slid a finger under Sherlock’s chin and kissed him, lingering for just a moment.

Sherlock smiled at him, the smile he saved just for John, the smile before he said, “I love you.”

They spent that last day at the pool, and after lunch, before the sun became unbearable, they returned to their cottage. John and Sherlock showered together to remove the sunscreen and sweat, and possibly for other reasons and then grazed on the remaining treats that had accrued over the week. Fresh fruit, cheese. Pretzels. Chocolate, and a handful of Haribo sweeties left in the bottom of the baggie in the cooler. Sherlock opened the suitcase to pack his clothes and found one last bottle of sparkling wine.

“We can celebrate our last night here,” Sherlock said. He chilled the bottle in the ice bucket, and when they finished packing and straightening, John brought the food and wine to bed. They nibbled and drank, more champagne than food, and they laughed and made love once again in this soft bed, covered with the down comforter. Sherlock made sad faces about his sunburned back (“It is your fault, John. You put the lotion on haphazardly,” he said with big eyes and a pouty bottom lip), and John agreed that he should be on his back rather than Sherlock. 

They fell asleep, stomachs full and bodies sated. John woke in the middle of the night to roll over, but watched Sherlock sleep. At home, several nights a week Sherlock would stay up, researching or grading papers. Here, he willingly joined John, entwining legs and hands, falling asleep quickly. Was it the sun or the walking? Or simply the peace? 

After breakfast the next morning, Sherlock brought the bags to the car while John took one last turn around the cottage, looking for anything they may have forgotten.

As they checked out at the main desk, Miz Caroline winked when Sherlock thanked her for the southern hospitality. John rolled his eyes and tried not to laugh when she told them she hadn’t received _too_ many calls about them. Sherlock did laugh as they walked out. They had tried their very best, too.

Sherlock opened the trunk of the Jag, removing their phones before putting the bags in.

“I meant to come back for them,” John said, trying to access his. “I left them on, and they’re dead now.” 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said, closing the trunk. “Everyone I love was here with me. Who else would call?” He kissed John and handed the keys over, content to have the passenger seat.

Phones charging, radio playing, John drove over the Causeway and headed home.

“Such a lovely Christmas gift. Thank you John,” Sherlock said, squeezing John’s hand.

With enough charge, first Sherlock’s phone returned to life, then John’s. Sherlock’s text alert—a hunting horn—sounded so many times that John lost count. 

“What’s going on, Sherlock?” John drummed his fingers on the wheel, trying to peek over at the phone without taking his eyes off the Friday morning traffic.

“They’re all Facebook alerts. Forty-seven of them, no, now 48,” Sherlock said, clearly confused. “My account is as a generic JAMMS student. I only belong to the school’s group page.” 

He opened one of the notifications. “It’s a video. One of the children posted a video entitled, ‘Faggots.’” His voice trembled even as he tried to keep it calm. 

With a deep breath and shaky fingers, Sherlock tapped the link for the Vine and stared. In the video, John finished rubbing lotion on Sherlock’s back, tucked a finger under Sherlock’s chin and kissed him. And Sherlock mouthed, ‘I love you.’ 

On a 6.5-second loop.  
  
 

 


	11. Hatred, Why For Art Thou?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It only takes 6.5 seconds and one overprotective brother to shake John and Sherlock's world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRIGGER WARNINGS: There is absolute homophobic statements and hate speech in this chapter** I would like you to know that these, sadly, are NOT fiction. They were taken, word for word, from a dear woman's blog when she mentioned she was gay. 
> 
> **Hopefully, you will think something good comes from something bad.
> 
> **you all created a monster (me!) with your wonderful, amazing comments. THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading and commenting. 
> 
> **any dialogue you recognize belongs to Hartwood/BBC Sherlock and not me
> 
> **Dedicated to QueenLadyAnne who suffered this indignity and my daughter, whose greatest fear it is to be hated for who she is.

“Who. Posted. That. Vine.” John’s measured words, his knuckles white on the steering wheel mirrored Sherlock’s feelings. “Tell me. Who.”

 “It’s Joey Moriarty’s account,” Sherlock answered quietly, hoping to keep John’s outburst from erupting; he doubted this time he would. “But I can hear his father’s voice.”

John pulled off the Interstate at the first possible exit. Breakfast roiled in his stomach, his body sweaty despite the air conditioning chilling the car. He parked in a fast food parking lot, but regretted it once the greasy air came through the vents.

“Oh God, Sherlock,” he whispered, grasping his sides, his head resting on the steering wheel. “What are we going to do?”

Sherlock’s phone rang.

Startled, they both stared at it, afraid of who could be calling. They breathed in relief when Sherlock recognized Emma Hudson’s phone number.

“Sherlock? It’s Honey. The Moriartys are at Sanibel,” she rushed the words out, trying to make up for a week’s delay in information. The Bluetooth connection played the call over the car’s audio system. They were surrounded by her fear. “You’ve got to watch out for them. I couldn’t call you sooner. Wait, what Sean?” Honey interrupted her conversation. 

They heard Sean say, “Mom, something’s happening on Facebook. I have a buttload of notifications.”

“Oh. My. GOD. Mom.” Sean’s 13 year old’s giggles pierced John’s heart. “Look at Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. Ewww, they’re kissing.” 

John knew it was more than possible that he would vomit right in the Jag.

“Sean Hudson. Turn that off, right now.”

“Mom,” they heard Siobhan’s voice. “Why are they calling Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes faggots. What does that even mean?” 

“I’m so sorry. John. Sherlock,” Honey’s voice trembled. “We’ll fight this. I’ll be home in an hour. I’ll report it to Facebook and have it taken down. We love you.” She hung up.

Silence overwhelmed them.

Sherlock thought only of John and his career at JAMMS. “We will weather this, John. We have done nothing wrong; we’ve broken no laws. It is not illegal to be in love.”

“Not yet, anyway,” John said banged his head on the steering wheel.

“Did that make you feel better?” Sherlock asked, almost smiling. 

“No.” John turned and looked at his best friend. “I’m scared.” 

Sherlock reached for John’s hand, kissing his palm and cradling it against his heart. “We will get through it together. Let’s get home and see what recourse we have.”

The four-hour drive home felt twice as long in the silence.

 

\----

 

Sherlock’s text alert sounded. “Honey reported the post to Facebook as hate speech. They have informed her that, while the post itself may be categorized as hate because of the term faggot,” he squeezed the word out, “the video itself is not inherently hate speech. The original post has been removed, but the Moriartys may put the Vine back up.”

“I don’t know if I’m angry or hurt,” John said, carding his hand through his short hair, leaving it sticking up in all directions. “Are people really this hateful?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer.

Although Sherlock offered to switch places and drive the remaining hour home, John preferred to stay at the wheel. It kept his mind off of his roiling stomach and the headache blooming behind his eyes. And his job, if he still had a job.

By the time they arrived home and unloaded their luggage, the original post had been removed. Unfortunately, the Joey Moriarty Facebook page had it back up with a less offensive, yet much more harmful heading: “Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes” 

Sherlock barely made it through the door before heading straight for the laptop searching Facebook policies and the Lake Jesup Public Schools employee handbook for legal grounds or recourse. 

"Sherlock, I'm going to the grocery store. To pick up milk and tea. Possibly dinosaur eggs. I believe we are out. Also dragon steaks. "

"Yes. Yes," Sherlock stared at the computer, fingers flying over the keyboard. He dismissed John with a wave of his hand, focusing more on the internet.

John wandered the store, putting items into his carry basket on one aisle and removing them the next. He stood in front of the spaghetti sauce staring at the jars. Wondering what other jobs we could have instead of teaching. Maybe move to a place like California. Or Vermont. Ugh. Too Cold. Like being back in London. London. Maybe we should move home. Is London home? I thought Florida was home.

He started at a tap on his shoulder, his stomach lurching into his throat. John turned around slowly, face neutral, braced for the worst a school parent could give.

“May I reach in here?” the customer asked politely. “I need spaghetti sauce.”

“I always make my own,” he said, his voice light with relief. “It’s the only thing I can cook.”  

The woman looked at him and laughed. “Why are you staring at the jars then?” She grabbed one and wheeled her cart away.

What the hell was he doing in the pasta aisle.

He took his grocery basket to the register lane, unloading his few items onto the conveyor belt and looking at the tabloid magazines with screaming headlines. ‘Kimye Preggers Again?!’  ‘John Mayer Cheats…Again!’   ‘BBC Actor Outs Self!’

“Why does this trash sell?” John railed at the cashier, who had no idea what to say. She looked behind her, breathing easier knowing that the manager was close. “Why are people so ungodly interested in other peoples’ privacy? Look at these people trying to eat, and photographers take their pictures. They have to hide under napkins. This is wrong.”

The cashier moved the items quickly across the scanner and bagged as she rang, to move John out faster. He paid (“$34 for milk, tea, jam and a loaf of bread?!”) and left the store carrying his three plastic bags of groceries. 

Before he could cross to the parking lot, an anthracite blue Mercedes S550 slowly rolled up and stopped. The rear window rolled down, and a posh, Cambridge voice said, “Get into the car, Dr. Watson.” 

“What? Who are you?” John tried to walk around the vehicle, but it moved to block him each time. His eyes darted side to side, looking for a police officer, possibly something he could use for a weapon. The bags…

“Dr. Watson. You just spent $34 on three bags of groceries, including cat food, a feminine hygiene product, and kiwi. You do not have a cat. You are not a woman. You are allergic to kiwi. In addition, not one bag contains bread, milk, tea, or jam. You are in no state to make decisions on your own. Get in the car, Dr. Watson.” 

The door opened, and John slid into the empty space, placing the bags on the seat. “I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you,” the ginger man with the posh voice said from the other side of the bag barricade. 

“I could take you,” John postured, staring at the man. 

“How droll and pedestrian. I expected a more original retaliation than resorting to pugilism,” the man wrinkled his nose in disdain. 

“Ah.” John understood now. “Posh accent. Ridiculous clothes and car. You must be Mycroft Holmes. There can’t be two _unrelated_ pompous British assholes in central Florida.”

The driver parked the car behind the shopping center, in a blind area with no security cameras. John noticed. 

“What do you want, Mycroft. And what’s all the cloak and dagger. You’re a lawyer for fuck’s sake.”

“Often, yes.”

John rolled his eyes. This man was almost a caricature of every spy movie hero. 

Mycroft looked out his own window, his shoulders relaxed and tone calm. “As a citizen of the Crown, it is my duty to aid my country when and where I can. That position affords me certain…privileges.” 

John assumed that was how he knew what John’d purchased and that he was allergic to kiwi.

Mycroft looked at him, eyes meeting Dr. Watson’s. “I want you to quit teaching and return to London.” Not a question. A directive from a man accustomed to being followed.

]“Fuck off.” John grabbed his bags and reached for the door handle. The door locks engaged with a resounding thump.

“Doctor Watson. Let me be clear. What do you require?”

“I don't understand,” John said, looking for ways to disengage the locks or overpower Sherlock’s brother. 

“What do you require—what are your terms—to leave Florida and to leave my brother? A job in another country? Financial remuneration? You have a price. Everyone has a price.” He looked away from John and dismissed his response with a wave of his hand. 

“I’m not leaving,” John reiterated. Mycroft noticed that, although John’s voice was unwavering, his hands were clenched. 

“You would do that to Sherlock? Have this scandal jeopardize the offer he had to become a professor at the University next year?”

John’s raised his eyebrows and worked to keep his mouth closed.  

“Ah. So he did _not_ tell you then.” Mycroft smirked and re-settled himself in the lush leather seat. 

John breathed deeply trying to see Mycroft for what he was. Manipulative. A bastard.

“Did he even tell you about his text book contract? I worked quite hard to secure such a rewarding contract. You seem to be an intelligent man, Dr. Watson.” Did that bastard smirk again?  “Pray tell me: what good is being a specialist in Florida history if one has run from that state?” 

"Yes, he told me," John lied. "And fuck you and fuck your guilt, Mycroft. If I leave—if **_we_** leave—it will be because we choose to. We will not be forced.”

"Yes." Again the disdain rolled off Mycroft. "Sentiment. Sherlock learned years ago that caring is not an advantage. When you leave, and you will leave—it’s what people do—you will break him. And when he is in hundreds of pieces, and I am fighting him to put him back together, as I did ten years ago, he will not thank you for staying now.”

“Joshua.” John whispered the name, a memory of the conversation he had with Sherlock on the night they met. 

“Yes. Joshua. He cared so very much for Sherlock. Until he didn't. Until Sherlock found him… betraying Sherlock’s trust and all that he believed about them…in _Sherlock’s_ bed.”  

John’s stomach lurched. He could not do to Sherlock what Joshua did. He couldn’t be responsible for that again.

“Sherlock learned the lesson well. Caring is not an advantage. I had him committed. I had no choice really. He was a danger to himself. The drugs. The needles. The…tricks.” 

John looked away from Mycroft. He couldn’t hear any more. He tried again to leave; fucking door locks. 

“Ah. I see he told you about this, just as he told you about the professorship and the book he is writing.” The smug bastard. John wanted…needed…to punch his face. 

He breathed in and held it, releasing the breath slowly. “Get this now, Mycroft. I am **not** leaving. Sherlock and I will weather this together.” That's what Sherlock had said, wasn't it. But. There was so much he didn't know about Sherlock. And what about truth. And trust.

“We will get through this. Together.” A flush crept over John’s cheeks. “I love him, Mycroft. And he loves me.” 

Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest and snorted. 

“That is precious,” Mycroft answered, barely keeping his eyes from rolling. “But remember this. James Moriarty gets what he wants and will not hesitate to burn whomever stands in his way. He will protect his family at all costs and at this moment, he believes that his way of life is directly threatened by you and Sherlock.”

With a click, the locks opened, and John took his cue. He barely closed the door before the car slipped away. 

“Dammit!” John yelled and kicked the dirt, as he realized Mycroft left him where they had parked, nowhere near John’s car.

 

\---

 

“Sherlock. We need to talk. Now,” John roared as he pushed through the door from the garage into the kitchen. “I met your arch enemy…” He dumped the four bags on the kitchen floor, kiwis spilling out, and stormed into the living room.

Sherlock sat in his chair, computer on his lap. Honey Hudson had drawn a dining room chair up next to him to read over his shoulder. 

“What is going on?” John couldn’t squeeze behind Honey to see the computer.

“The good news is a bunch of JAMMs families have posted the video in support of y’all on Facebook and said really nice things,” Honey said, with a small smile. She put an arm around John’s waist and hugged him.

“But?” John patted her hand sitting on his hip. “What’s the but?”

Sherlock edged the computer screen away from John. “Moriarty set up a website focused on keeping our school children safe. It’s quite…ugly, but…” 

John interrupted and reached for the computer. “Let me see.” 

Sherlock twisted the computer further from John’s reach, “but we are working on having the website removed.”

John reached over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Don’t hide things from me, Sherlock. I’m not a fucking child.”  He grabbed the computer roughly from Sherlock’s lap. It was _his_ fucking computer anyway.

 

**~~~~~~ **~~~~~~****

 

**PARENTS 4 SAFE SCHOOLS**

_Our children have a right to a safe environment at their schools without being exposed to amoral lifestyles. Do we want our children to learn it’s OK to be gay? Lake Jesup Public Schools, look at this video of two of your teachers._

_ Is this what YOU want? What do you say? _

 

**Anonymous says (3/21/14):**

You must understand that, children follow the example of adults and older generations. And if you truly believe that you are creating "good moral citizens" by permitting "gays" then you are wrong. Sure, gays mean no "harm" to your children, but the way they act could effect your children morally and physically. You don't realize that you are taking away their innocence, and slowly twisting it into something that is not right. 

**Anonymous says (3/21/14)** : I am a Christian and I am saddened by their choice to live this life of sin. I pray that THE LORD MY GOD will help them see the deep error of their paths.

**LJPS Parent1 says (3/21/14)** : This is disgusting. Take this website down and leave these men alone.

**Biblical Truth says (3/21/14):** I am not happy with your “choice.” You are wrong and in the end you will die for this sin. Jesus Loves You.

**Anonymous says (3/21/14):** Take this crap webpage down. You are not Christians. You are hateful people.

**Anonymous says (3/21/14):** LJPS Parent3, when no people are left on earth because the gays can’t reproduce, don’t blame us.

 

**~~~~~~ **~~~~~~****

 

John leaned back against the wall behind Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock took the computer from John’s shaking hands, and Honey hugged him.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” John whispered, his eyes closed. 

“We’ll keep fighting, John,” Honey said, her arms still wrapped around John with her head buried in his neck. “There are a lot of good people at JAMMS. They won’t stand for this.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, and planted a kiss on the top of Sherlock’s head. “I’m going to start calling parents I know. We’ll make this stop. Goddamn bullies.”

She left, taking the last breath of hope with her.

Sherlock placed the laptop on the coffee table and moved hesitantly toward John. “I heard you before,” he said to John, having stopped several steps away. He reached toward John then dropped his hands. “You saw my arch enemy.”

“Yes. Your brother is fuckhole.”

A quick, high-pitched laugh escaped from Sherlock. “That’s a new description of him. I haven’t heard that before.” 

Sherlock moved toward John, whose arms hung at his sides, not reaching for Sherlock. He read John’s body and moved past him into the kitchen to the tea kettle. He offered to make John tea; John shook his head no. 

“Sherlock this is ridiculous. I’m not gonna dance around this. Come here.” Finally, he held his hand out to guide Sherlock to the couch. 

“Mycroft told you.”

“Yes, he told me a lot of things.” John scrubbed the back of his neck as he looked at Sherlock. “I’m not stupid you know. I know he’s manipulative and probably lied about a lot of it. But I really don’t _know_ , do I? Because you’ve hidden shit from me for three months. No, since I moved in **five** months ago.” 

Sherlock sighed and slumped against the back of the couch. “You know about the text book?”

“I knew about the book before Mycroft said anything. Why didn’t you think you could tell me something that stupid?”

Sherlock looked at his hands, clasped tightly together in his lap. “I was afraid you would think it _was_ ridiculous. You don’t use text books…”

John blew air through his nose and slowly unfurled his fist. “ _You_ are ridiculous.”

“I wasn’t even sure I was going to take the job at the University, and it’s not even been offered officially. I was going to tell you when they offered it.” Sherlock sounded so small. John had never seen him like this.

“I don’t give a shit about any of this Sherlock. What pisses me off is that we’re partners. We share. And you kept this from me. Did you think I would be jealous or angry?” 

Sherlock shook his head, still avoiding John’s eyes.

“Well what the fuck were you thinking, because you sure weren’t thinking about **_us_**.”

“I was afraid you would…laugh,” Sherlock whispered, so quietly that John leaned forward, straining to hear. 

And John did laugh. A long, cold laugh. Sherlock looked at him, his lips pressed together, white with pressure.

“You don’t know me at all,” John said, the laughter gone, but the ice remained. “I would support you to my last breath. I would write letters of recommendation. I would tweet it. But I would never. Ever. Think it was stupid.”

Sherlock moved toward John. Afraid to reach for a hug, but he needed it so badly. He had to fix this but was it beyond fixing? Sherlock slid his hand, palm up across the cushion to John, hoping John would hold it, entwine his fingers with Sherlock’s. Let him know everything would be okay. 

“Oh no. I’m not done yet,” he said, looking at the peace offering.  “We sat in Angelo’s the first night we met, and you mentioned Joshua in passing. And you never mentioned him again in 5 months. So what do _I_ think. Well that sucks, but whatever. It’s in the past. How nice of Mycroft to fill me in on some of the finer details today.”

Sherlock crumpled in on himself, the couch almost swallowing him. He pulled his knees up to his chest, and rested his head on them. He began talking, his voice muffled by his legs.

“I loved him so much. He was everything I never had before. A best friend. A confidante. A lover. He was my first. He accepted me for who I was. When he said he loved me, I knew we were soul mates. But I had no experience John. I didn’t know about crushes and how fleeting they can be. And how some people will say anything.” He looked at John now, his eyes wet with tears. John closed the space on the couch, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. He dipped his head to rest against Sherlock’s.

“I see now what I didn’t then. How often he lied to me. When he would text Carter in the US, he would read them to me. Tell me how much fun they had when Carter was at Uni with him that semester. When he suggested going to stay with Carter and his friends, it sounded smart. We had no money left. Why not.

“I had a job as a waiter. I was horrible at it, as you can imagine,” Sherlock choked out a laugh, and John smiled. “But I guess people thought I was…pretty. Plus, if I told the table the things I could deduce—like I did for you—they would leave me generous tips. It never occurred to Joshua to find work.  He said he was writing the text for our book, since I took the photos. So I supported us. When I came home that day, and I could hear them through the apartment door, their… noise…” his chin trembled as he tried to continue. 

“I wanted to be indignant. To scream at them. But they were in our bed, John. He was the only person I’d ever been with. I loved him and trusted him.” Sherlock felt dizzy, couldn’t get enough air in his lungs.

“I didn’t yell. I cried. I took some clothes and the disks with the pictures for the book on them, and I left,” Sherlock buried his head back into his pulled-up knees. “They laughed at me. I heard them laughing as I closed the apartment door.” 

John wrapped himself as tightly as he could around Sherlock, kissing his neck, his face, his shoulders, kissing away tears. 

“My parents did say I had to come home, and I got them to agree to allow me to attend the university here. I registered for classes but never went. Read their ridiculous text books and showed up for the final exams. I did that for a year, spending the days drunk and the nights high. I would sober up enough each weekend to work and make enough in tips to support my cocaine habit. Then heroin. That was harder to sober up from. And I needed money. I found a nice older gentleman who believed my lies. He bought me what I needed. When I was high, my inhibitions were…minimal. 

“Unfortunately, he was an acquaintance of my brother’s. At a charity dinner one evening, my benefactor bragged about a delicious piece he had at home. Tall and slender. Porcelain white skin and no gag reflex. Also had no problems performing in front of others, as long as he was high. But my benefactor made it clear he had enough money. 

“Mycroft had lost touch with me as he became a prominent lawyer. You know how I am sober, John. Can you imagine the embarrassment I was to Mycroft when I was high? But he quickly realized the man was talking about me. He had me taken and sent into rehab first and then committed to a mental hospital against my will when it became apparent what drove my abuse.”

“I never thought I would be thankful that Mycroft has no boundaries,” John said, cradling Sherlock’s chin in his hands, forcing Sherlock to look at him.

“Yes, well. I was certain my life was mine to do with as I wanted. I did not thank him. But I went to the doctor and kept with my rehab routines and eventually graduated with highest honors from the university. I vowed never to use drugs again. Never to care about someone again. And never to trust Mycroft again.”

“Did you lie to me, then Sherlock, when you said you love me?” John asked stiffly, forcing himself to look into Sherlock’s eyes.

“No,” Sherlock unfolded himself, and turned toward John. “You are the first person whom I have opened up to in all these years. You and I are…different. I look into the future, and I see us. I don’t remember being without you. And I don’t want to think of a time where I don’t have you. Where we don’t have each other.”

John closed the gap between them. He opened himself up to Sherlock’s embrace, his forgiveness, his apology. And John cried along with Sherlock.

“God, we sound like middle-schoolers,” John laughed when he could finally quiet his sobs.  “Please don’t keep things from me. I can’t promise I won’t be angry, but I can promise I will try to understand.”

They sat on the couch, entwined for hours. Sherlock asked questions of John, who answered them openly. And although Sherlock often hesitated, he tried to answer what John asked. It was by no means perfect, but it was something.

 

\---

 

Sunday night, Sherlock received a robo-call from the school, asking the teachers to arrive 30 minutes early Monday morning for an emergency staff meeting. John received the same call. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce the topic of the meeting.

When their text messages alerted simultaneously, they stared at each other, afraid to reach for their phones. “You’ll have a lot of support tomorrow. See you at 815. Emma.”  God bless Emma Hudson, John thought.

 

\---

 

By 8:20 the next morning, most of the teachers were seated at the columns of cafeteria tables. Word had spread, and the faculty and staff knew the purpose of the meeting. To Sherlock, it seemed that those who supported them sat on one side of the cafeteria while those who did not, sat on the other. 

Principal Lestrade entered the cafeteria at 8:20 followed by Assistant Principal Adler. Lestrade had his clipboard in front of him and kept his eye contact to a minimum as he read a prepared statement. 

“Over the weekend, certain private information was revealed via the internet. I won’t be coy. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson are involved romantically. That is not our concern. It does not affect the students, and their relationship is no one’s business, any more than any of you and your significant other’s. The LJPS district handbook is very clear on this: a person’s private life is of no concern to the District unless it directly affects the students.”

He brought his palm up to silence the side conversations as people agreed and disagreed. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Lestrade looked at the faculty as he continued.

“Regardless of the District’s policy, we already know that most of these children are emotionally immature and will have no idea how to handle this information. In short, they’re going to get stupid. We need to stop this before it starts. This morning, when he students arrive, get them in their seats. Insist on silence. If you feel you can’t, let me know, and one of the Deans will be in your classroom. I will make an all-school announcement. This is a bully free zone, whether it’s their peers, the administration or the faculty and staff. I will remind them that every person has a right to privacy, and that anyone… ** _anyone_** …found bullying another person will be dealt with in the strictest way possible.”

Lestrade took a deep breath and looked firmly at both sides of the cafeteria. “Sadly, I need to remind you all that this applies to you, too. Regardless of your personal beliefs, we are here for the children, and it is in our best interest to keep this out of the classrooms. I will also remind them and you, that according to our JAMMS Honor Code, you are duty bound to report anything you see.”

He dismissed the teachers to their classrooms. Emma Hudson and Molly Hooper hugged Sherlock and John and offered support. Other people followed suit; yet, they couldn’t help but notice those who gave them a wide berth, including Assistant Principal Adler and Sally Donovan.

When he got back to his room, John dragged enough chairs from Drama in, so that each of the boys in his first class would be able to sit. He set them up in rows, apart from each other, but when they got into the classroom, the boys began rearranging them. 

From the first day that Dr. Watson had walked into the classroom in October, he had been fun and funny. Singing for them. Supporting them. The kind of teacher who noticed if a student were having a tough day. He'd never had a reason to fuss. The students behaved because they like him and respected him, not because they feared him, as it was with certain other teachers. 

“Put the chairs back!” John raised his voice. “Leave them as they were.” 

When the boys placed the chairs back in rows, there was a gap down the middle. Sean sat at the front on one side. Joey Moriarty sat on the other side. Their friends filtered in next to and behind them. 

"Dr. Watson, are you okay?" Sean asked, wiggling in his seat. "The Dr. Watson we know..." 

"I'm not the Dr. Watson you know," John barked out. With a deep breath and with careful eye contact to each student, John said, "Mr. Lestrade is going to make an announcement in a minute. There will be silence. You will listen. And I will penalize anyone who disobeys.” 

For the first time, the boys obeyed Dr. Watson out of unease and fear.

In Sherlock's class the students filed in quietly as always and sat down, prepared with their notebooks and pens to begin class. "Principal Lestrade will make an announcement in a moment. Once he is finished I will comment, and then we will continue as we would on any other Monday. Is that understood?" Twenty-two silent heads nodded, removing and folding a piece of paper from their notebook for their regular Monday morning quiz.

At precisely 9:15am, the speakers came alive. "Attention all JAMMERS" (John winced inwardly at the ridiculous nickname Lestrade used for the students. He really had no idea how much the kids laughed at it, and it wasn't John's place to tell him.) "We have eight weeks remaining in this school year. Occasionally we need to be reminded of the rules. First I remind you all of the dress code as it gets warmer. Review it before it gets even warmer, please. Also this is a bully free zone. We have a zero tolerance policy.”

The students in Sherlock’s class fidgeted, covering their mouths so that no laugh would escape. Several students, well trained, took notes in their notebooks on what the principal said in the event of a quiz later in the period.  

The principal reminded them that the penalty for bullying was expulsion with no second chances. When he finished with his announcement, each teacher underscored to his or her own homeroom the gravity of the situation. 

“Are there any questions?” Dr. Watson stared at the boys’ chorus, catching each boy’s eye. The students sitting with Sean nodded and smiled. Those sitting behind Joey avoided their teacher’s gaze until he identified them by name.

When he called Joey, the student’s response seemed polite: “No, sir. No questions at all.” No one missed the hint of arrogance in his tone.

By 9:25, hoping to put the hoopla behind him, John turned his back to the class to write the lesson’s objective on the white board. Joey stage-whispered to his friend, “I’m not worried. My father will be here soon to discuss this with the principal.”

John stopped writing. The kids knew he heard what Joey said. That was the point of saying it, after all. They held their breath. 

Discretion being the better part of valor, John ignored the comment and finished his sentence on the board.

The door to the classroom opened, without the courtesy of a knock. It wasn’t even 9:30 yet. Ms. Donovan walked to the front of the classroom and said, “Dr. Watson. Principal Lestrade needs you in his office. He told me to watch your class.”

 

 

 

 


	12. Tinker, Soldier, Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When James Moriarty makes his first move at the school, John realizes how it will play out. But with Honey Hudson on his side, and 2/3 of the students, can he win?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--obscene amt of thanks to 221btls for taking time from her morning ablutions to read!  
> \--That line belongs to Hartswood, not me ;) as do the characters
> 
> \--Arctic Monkeys. Put on "AM" and let the drum beat move your soul. 
> 
> \--NO H8 is real. Please check it out: http://www.noh8campaign.com/
> 
> \--Thank you so much for coming along for the ride! This is 12/13. But I MAY need a 14th ;)

John knocked on the Principal’s door before walking in. Lestrade sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, his hands wrapped around a mug of steaming coffee. A gift from a student last year, the mug read “The Principal is your PAL.”

John almost snorted at the irony, at odds with the administrator all year. He worked to keep his face neutral, which was even more difficult when he turned to see James Moriarty sitting on the worn leather couch. His Westwood suit, every bit as posh as Sherlock’s, clashed with the shabby office furniture and the threadbare carpet.   
   
Moriarty sat relaxed, seeming at ease, but something was off. He smiled and laughed with Lestrade, but his eyes never settled in one place. His hands flat against his thighs, he made no effort to rise from the couch or shake hands when John walked in.  
   
Lestrade put down his coffee mug and stood. “Dr. Watson. Thank you for coming. I wanted to bring you into the discussion.” He pointed toward one of the chairs in front of the desk.  
   
John immediately realized that Moriarty had seated himself strategically. If John sat in one of the chairs at the desk, he’d be at a disadvantage, constantly turning to address Moriarty.   
   
It was shit like this that set John on edge. It reaffirmed what he already knew—that this meeting would be useless. Moriarty wasn’t here to resolve problems; he wanted to remind everyone that as a parent, he had the upper hand. The school would listen to him. The school would placate him.  
   
John refused to play his game. So he sat on the opposite end of the couch instead of at the desk, trying to find a posture that would belie his anxiety.  
   
“Dr. Watson, this is Mr. James Moriarty. His son Joseph is in boys’ chorus.”  
   
“Yes, we’ve met,” John said, extending his hand toward Moriarty out of ingrained manners. “At the Hudsons’ Christmas party.”  
   
“Oh. Yes. Now that you mention it,” Moriarty sniffed, disregarding John’s hand. “I suppose we did.”  
   
John clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth. He kept his hands relaxed, trying not to draw them into fists.  
   
Lestrade broke in. “Mr. Moriarty has some concerns.”  
   
“They come at a convenient time, considering the video posted on his son’s Facebook page,” John said, against his better judgment, anger creeping into his voice.  
   
“Ah yes. We posted several videos from our vacation. We had a lovely time. Sanibel is such a wonderful place for families to go. However this year, there were more ‘singles’. We find their public displays so offensive.” Did he actually, really just shiver?  
   
John took a deep breath. Is it legal to kill someone for being homophobic _and_  using air quotes?  
   
“Our family has suffered significantly at the hands of others,” Moriarty said, more as a vigilante victim than with sadness. “You may not know that our other son suffered significant brain trauma as a result of a horrible beating. The emotional drain on our family is exhausting. I tell you this because, with Joseph’s fragile sense of self, we monitor outside stress.”  
   
This time, John barely suppressed the laugh. Considering the size of Joey’s ego, no one would ever believe him fragile.  
   
Moriarty heard the bubble of laughter and turned to John, his voice controlled but angry. “Is this funny to you, Mr. Watson? No wonder my child feels bullied in class, and not only by you. You use your favorites as henchmen to bully the other students in the name of discipline. It’s demoralizing, Mr. Lestrade.”   
   
John already had the District’s gradebook program open on his iPhone. “Nothing in your son's performance would indicate a problem. As you can see in the online gradebook, Joey has straight 100s for a quarter average of 100.” He held the phone out to Moriarty, who ignored the gesture.  
   
Moriarty re-settled in the couch and stared at Lestrade, addressing him directly. “Can you see exactly how my son would feel bullied? I raise a concern and the teacher dismisses it out of hand,” he said, gesturing toward John. “In the past, the faculty has been open and gracious. Not hostile as Dr. Watson is. And this is in an informal meeting. I blanch just thinking how he would behave in front of the School Board.”  
   
And there it was. Even though Moriarty’s agenda was to have John removed from the classroom because of his sexual orientation, he would couch it in complaints about the teacher’s classroom performance. No. He couldn’t be fired for being gay. But the District’s policy on actionable complaints included incompetence in the classroom. And that was online for any person to read. Moriarty would take these unfounded accusations to the Board in an attempt to circumvent the termination process.  

“Are you aware that Joey lashes out at those whom he thinks are beneath him?” John asked, trying to keep his voice level and without edge. “It’s counter-productive in a group setting.”        

“We’ve taught our son to be proud of himself,” Moriarty spoke lucidly. “He’s taken music lessons since he was 7. I’m quite certain his talent is superior to those in boys’ chorus.”  
   
“He certainly does have excellent musicality,” John agreed, literally biting his tongue.  “I wish he would respect others who are proud of who they are.”  
   
“Mrs. Moriarty and I do teach him to respect others, Mr. Watson, when a person’s actions are worthy and not deviant.”  
   
When John tensed and moved, Lestrade knew John was going to strangle Moriarty. Bad. That would be bad. Deserved, but bad. He should step in. Sigh  
   
“I understand your concern for your son, Mr. Moriarty. What I’m hearing you say is that your son feels bullied in class by the teacher. However, _Dr_. Watson is an excellent disciplinarian. I have seen him.”  
   
John tried one last time to reach this man. “I’ve taught almost 10 years. I handle issues quietly and respectfully, preferably after class. It is no one else’s business. The other students won’t know unless the child himself chooses to tell.”   
   
“You are saying that my son is the problem here.” Moriarty response was tempered. Cool. He seemed to be mentally recording the meeting for later review. Logging every slight spoken against his son.  
   
Again, Lestrade stepped in. “I understand that Joseph is uncomfortable in this class, and we at JAMMS believe every student has the right to a safe environment. One thing I can do immediately is change his schedule, removing him from boys' chorus.”   
   
Greg turned to the computer and tapped at the keyboard, finding the scheduling program. “There’s only one quarter left to school, so our options are limited. The other first period electives are completely full, but I could switch him to 5 th period physical education. Oh, he has Gifted Math at that time, and that’s the only Gifted Math class. I can offer standard math first period, and PE 5thin a direct switch. Or, I could offer an advanced math class, but the only open slot is in 3rd, and that’s when he’s got Gifted English, and I’m sorry to say, that is the only time Gifted English is offered.”  
   
John wasn’t sure where Lestrade stood about him and Sherlock. But moving Joey was going to fuck with the child’s schedule. And for that, John wanted to plant a giant kiss on the principal’s head.  
   
“So you’ll penalize my son for his teacher’s ineptitude.” Moriarty raised both palms in defeat. “Leave him in chorus. I’ll make sure he knows how to defend himself if the bullying continues.” He turned to John. “And _when_ it continues, either from the teacher or with his tacit approval, we  _will_  go over your head. I want there to be no surprises.”  
   
Moriarty stood and straightened his jacket and cuffs before he left the room. Although Lestrade said, “I promise you that I will investigate your concerns. Thank you for coming.” Moriarty didn’t stop to acknowledge the words.  
   
John couldn’t stand. His legs felt wobbly and weak. He breathed out and thanked Lestrade.  
   
“I wasn’t going to let him talk to one of my teachers like that,” Lestrade said, sitting down and taking a long pull of coffee. “I don’t agree with you and Sherlock being together. It doesn’t seem…natural. But it’s not my business, and I’m not gonna have some asshole try to have you fired for it. Go back to class and treat that kid like he’s a fucking prince.”  
   
As John opened the door, Greg stopped him. “You saw him John. Guy’s a snake. Don’t turn your back on him.” John nodded and closed the door behind him.  
   
James Moriarty had stopped at the front desk to sweet talk the secretary, thanking her for getting him in to see the principal so quickly and how lovely it was to speak with her when he called. He smiled and walked out to the parking lot. A few compliments often literally and figuratively opened doors easier. He knew that.  
   
Lost in thought leaving of the front office, he didn’t see Honey Hudson come directly toward him as he walked toward his car.   
   
“I hope you’re proud of yourself,” Honey Hudson pointed at his chest, not hiding her loathing.

“Good morning to you, too, Honey.” James smiled and opened his arms for a hug.  
   
“Oh no you don’t. You’re disgusting.” She kept her voice quiet but it shook. “Why are you doing this to Sherlock and John?”  
   
“You have three children. You know that children follow the example of adults and older generations. And if you truly believe that you are creating ‘good moral citizens’ by tolerating ‘gays’ then you are wrong,” Moriarty’s air quotes underscored his outrage.  “Sure, they mean no harm, but the way gays act could affect our children morally and physically. By exposing our children to these deviants, we’re taking away their innocence and slowly twisting it into something that is not right.”  
   
Honey looked into Jim’s eyes. She’d known him for 8 years, since their boys were in kindergarten together. His eyes were clear. No hint of guile. And he seemed to almost beg her to believe him.   
   
“God help us, you believe that shit, don’t you,” Honey said, shaking her head. For the first time that morning, Moriarty’s body betrayed him. The muscles in his neck and jaw tensed. He closed his eyes slowly, and tried to end the conversation, but she interrupted him.  
   
“What happened to your son was horrible. But it wasn’t because he’s gay. It was because of hate. Like you’re trying to do now. I love and respect those two men, Jim. I’ll fight you.”  
   
James laughed. “No. You  _want_  to. You like to think you will. But you can’t. You’re too… nice.” He grimaced, as if it were the most vile thing he could say about someone.  
   
Honey moved closer to Jim, and put her face right up to his. She whispered, “I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them.”  
   
“Is that supposed to be threatening? _Honey?_ ” He laughed openly that someone named Honey would be threat.  
   
“Last year, a video went viral. Did you see it? The Badass Honey Badger. Look it up, Jim. The Honey Badger is the most fearless in all the animal kingdom. It’ll stop at nothing to protect itself or its loved ones.” She moved into his personal space and said, “The honey badger just don’t give a fuck.”  
   
She turned away from him, and as she walked into the school she said, “Please don’t forget that, Jim.”  
   
\---  
   
By the time John got back to his room, they were already in second period. He thanked Molly (who had taken over for Sally when the period switched) for watching his students but didn’t offer any explanation. He pulled the 6th grade girls into their rows and began rehearsing their opening song for the Spring Concert. He had to put everything out of his mind to focus on the music.  
   
When his phone vibrated in his pocket, John turned the conducting duties to one of the students and stood back behind the chorus to answer the text.  
   
             ** _Word travels fast. You ok? –SH_**

 _  
_John smiled. That small grin produced a dimple in his right cheek. He’d seen it more in the past three months than in the past three years.  
   
            Yeah, kinda. How are you texting in class? Don’t get in trouble;  
            one of us needs a job to pay the bills!  
   
            __**Working on the state’s End of Course review sheets  
            For Civics. Small groups. Supreme Court decisions. –SH**

 

John resumed conducting, and at the end of class, as the girls were filing out, Siobhan Hudson came up to him, hesitantly. 

“You ok, DW? I mean, Dr. Watson?” she asked, pursing her lips and fumbling with her backpack.  
   
“Yes ma’am. Why wouldn’t I be?”  
   
“Sean told me you got sent to the principal’s office this morning. I didn’t know if it was because of the video,” she took a deep breath and rushed the rest of her words. “Ihopenot, IreallyloveyouandMr.Holmes.” She lunged and hugged him and before he could respond, she ran out the door toward her next class.  
   
When the bell rang at 4pm to end the day, John sat at his desk with his head down. All day he felt like people had been staring and pointing, and not just students. He had actually seen coworkers whispering behind their hands.   
   
He wanted to say, how’s your husband? How’s your wife? Mine? Oh I’m not legally allowed to get married, thank you for asking. Or the one male teacher he knew who had a running list of faculty and staff members he’d fucked. Wanted to say, doesn’t matter how many people you fuck here, as long as they’re female, huh? Good for you!  
   
“It won’t do you any good, you know,” the dark, rich voice washed over John, the voice in his dreams.   
   
John turned his head to look at Sherlock.   
   
“Thinking about whether it’s fair that everyone knows who’s sleeping with whom, but we are the ones penalized for it.” Sherlock walked up behind John and rubbed his back, putting down his briefcase to knead John’s shoulders with both hands.  
   
“How do you do that. It’s unnatural.” John groaned at the deep press in his muscles. “Knowing what I’m thinking, I mean. Not the massage. The massage is nice.”  
   
“Come along then, and I will massage you properly at home,” Sherlock said, with one last knead and then stroking the shell of John’s ear.  
   
No questions asked, John gathered his papers and crammed them into his backpack before Sherlock could change his mind.   
   
“I wish I had thought to turn the pool heater on this morning,” John smiled longingly.  
   
“And that is why you chose wisely choosing me, John.” Sherlock winked as they left John’s classroom. He tried to take John’s hand while they walked, but John grabbed it away.   
   
“Not here. Not now,” he hissed.  
   
“Don’t be ridiculous, John.” Sherlock reached again.    
   
“If we hold hands here, we will look like fucking 8th graders. I am not holding your hand at school.” John shoved his left hand into his trouser pocket and wrapped his right hand around the backpack strap.  
   
Sherlock dropped his proffered hand and walked away from John to the car. Deep breaths. Slow in. Slow out. Try to see John's point. These are the things he was working on. Relationships were tricky. Give and take. Cooperation. Yielding. Dammit. He knew when he was right. Why did  _he have_  to apologize.   
   
He wound himself up, indignant over John's rebuff. Sherlock would tell John. Showing affection is natural among all animals on Earth. As he opened the door and sat down, he looked at John ready to tell him off for being an ass.  
   
"I'm sorry, baby," John said apologetically, reaching for Sherlock’s arm. "There were so many better ways I could have handled that." He took Sherlock's hand and kissed his fingers.   
   
Sherlock's jaw dropped, and he stared at John.   
  
"You're probably pretty pissed off at me," he said ruefully, trying to make Sherlock smile. "And I had really great plans for the pool.   
   
Everything Sherlock had resolved, the irate talking to, all went out the window when John apologized. He sat silent, John looking at him from the passenger seat.  
   
“Let’s go home,” Sherlock said. He reached for the radio and pulled his hand back, deciding against the noise. John watched out his window on the ride home, not sure if Sherlock were still angry.  
   
When they pulled into the driveway, Sherlock reached into the back for his briefcase. John called out, “Wait a second!” They met in front of the car, and John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s slender waist.   
   
And right there. On the driveway. In full view of the neighbors. John reached up and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, and then cradled his face. “I love you, Sherlock. I already know I’ll love you always.” John kissed Sherlock slowly, a secret message given in public.   
   
How could Sherlock be angry with this man who had changed his entire life? Not a loner any more. Not alone any more. Not afraid any more. Sherlock returned the embrace, wanting to pull John closer, but remembering that it might be a bit not good in public.  
   
“Come inside. Please.” John nuzzled Sherlock’s chin with his nose and kissed his cheek.  
   
He took Sherlock’s hand and led him into the house.  
   
“John, perhaps the pool isn’t a good idea when it’s still daylight,” Sherlock said.  
   
But John had already dropped his backpack and slipped his polo shirt over his head. His skin still pink from the sun last week at the beach. His chest hair more golden. The late afternoon sun illuminating him. Sherlock needed him. Needed him to breathe.  And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t afraid of that.   
   
“Absolutely. We don’t need more videos online,” John said, in between kisses. He took the briefcase out of Sherlock’s hand and dropped it to the floor. Next came the necktie.   
   
John unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt, kissing skin as he revealed it.  
   
“Need you,” Sherlock whispered. John simply nodded, working the cotton shirt off Sherlock’s shoulders, letting it pool on the floor. Wrinkles. Damn the wrinkles.  
   
John kissed and nipped, following the line of dark wispy hair that disappeared below Sherlock’s belt. Belt. Get the belt off.   
  
As Sherlock unbuckled his belt, John kissed each fingertip, slowly taking the middle finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it. He told Sherlock his intention, lightly scraping his teeth, pressing his other hand on Sherlock’s already hard cock.

Sherlock’s moan melded into a long deep kiss, tongues twined. When John broke away, he kissed the expanse of neck. Over the nipple, with his teeth, and down to his knees unzipping the trousers, down and off. Silk boxers pulled down to reveal the sharp hipbone, kissing, sucking a bruise.

Sherlock moaned. Pleaded. He tried to work his boxers off, but John slapped his hand. They were _his_ to remove. Slowly. Deliciously. Over the sensitive head, the length of the cock, exposing everything.

Sherlock stood naked in the sunbeams. So beautiful. So blessed beautiful. 

John’s mouth was close to the cock, close but not on. His warm breath made it dance. And when John was ready, he cupped Sherlock’s balls in one hand and held the cock firm with the other. No more teasing. His tongue swirled over the head, sipping at the droplets of precome. Sherlock’s hands grasped John’s hair too tightly, more than he meant to, but he had no control when John had him like this.

John reached around to Sherlock’s ass, grabbing those beautiful cheeks and parting them as his head. Sherlock lost himself in the rhythm and in the tangle of fingers in hair. Once his hips moved with John’s rhythm, John let him take over. Fuck his mouth. He slid his fingers as close to Sherlock’s hole as he could, enough to tantalize but not to actually touch.

“John I need to, can I, I love you, unhnff, pleasepleaseplease…”

John squeezed Sherlock’s ass, and his hips stuttered as John’s finger grazed his hole. Sherlock pushed forward and his orgasm overtook him.

He tried to untangle his fingers from John’s short hair and knew that John’s scalp would be very sore later. John wiped his mouth, and stood up, his pants tight from his own need.

Sherlock fell back onto the couch, unable to move, except to smile. He patted the couch next to him, but John shook his head.

“I was thinking about the pool. I know it’s still early, but I think the water and air will be warmer now rather than after dark,” John’s voice trailed off as he went into his old room. He returned holding a towel for Sherlock along with one for himself.   

Sherlock peered at him through heavy lids. Really. A nap seemed like a much better idea right now, but as John stripped off his trousers, and then more slowly, his boxer-briefs, Sherlock saw John’s thick hardness. Pool. Floating. Sex. Weightless fucking.  John wrapped his towel around his waist, his erection tenting, and he palmed it through the towel and moaned.

“Put your towel on,” he said gruffly. “I’m going to fuck you in the pool.” John reached out for Sherlock’s hand to help him stand up, and waited while Sherlock wrapped his own towel around his waist.

The air might have been 85 degrees, but the water was no more than 70. Compared to the air, it was cold. Icy. Bad. And when John bravely walked naked down the steps into the pool (thank God for the shrubs which offered some privacy) and the still chilly water collided with his hard cock…the water did its worst. John’s erection wilted noticeably.

“Th-th-this isn’t going to work, Sh-Sh-Sherlock,” John shivered, up to his waist in water.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked sadly, standing on the pool deck in the warm air. He couldn’t laugh; that would be wrong in so many ways.

“I th-think it’s making my balls shrivel up,” John said, rubbing his arms trying to warm up, hoping to reignite his interest.

“Bless your heart,” Sherlock said, in the most Southern turn of phrase he had, which translated as ‘foolish man.’  “Come out of there now.”

John walked back up the steps, and Sherlock slipped the towel back around John’s waist. “There are so many better places to make love,” he said quietly in John’s ear. “Soft beds, warm baths, showers can be tricky but doable…” And after tucking in the end of the towel to hopefully assure it wouldn’t slip off, Sherlock led John back into the house.

He reached for the remote control for their iPod speakers. Driving rock music, classic Rolling Stones from the 1960s (well before either was born) pulsed from the speakers. Too much. Something quieter. Sherlock kissed John’s shoulder and left him for a brief moment, choosing something softer, with a sexual drum beat under the music. Arctic Monkeys, something John had just downloaded.

He returned to John, still shivering, possibly faking, but his skin was cold to Sherlock’s touch. He stroked John’s body, firmly not lightly so as to tickle. That wouldn’t do.

He rubbed John’s arms with his still warm hands, kissing his neck, right behind the earlobe. He brushed his hands over John’s chest, and lower over the towel covering John’s ass.

“I m-m-might be warmer if you took the wet towel off…” John suggested, his eyes closed and voice wispy.

“Excellent idea.” As Sherlock reached down to untuck the towel, he grazed his hand over John’s growing erection and was rewarded with a delicious, low moan. “You certainly are still chilled. Which do you think would help more,” Sherlock asked, his tongue tracing the shell of John’s ear, then down his neck. Before John could respond, Sherlock traced down to the bottom lip before sliding in and teasing John’s tongue.

 “This is good. Really good.” John whispered, his body moving with the slow-grinding rhythm of the song.

 

            _Cause there’s this tune I found that makes me think of you somehow and I play it  on repeat…_

 

“Should we move to the bed or the bath, or…”

“Here,” John said. “Stay here. I just need you touching me.

Sherlock warmed John’s body with his hands and mouth, tracing lines with both, rubbing and stroking from his face to his ankles. Dropping his own towel, Sherlock pressed their bodies together, both hard, needing each other.

“Beautiful. You are so beautiful,” John said. “And when you touch me, you are so much more than beautiful.” He wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s neck, his fingers playing w/ the dark curls, and kissing him with deep love.

Sherlock could barely speak, overcome with emotion. Although John had wanted to stay in the living room, Sherlock led him back to their bed, the music still playing in the other room. He tented the comforter over them, cocooned within. Their breath warmed the space and John’s body no longer felt chill to the touch.

“I just want to feel you inside me,” Sherlock said, no longer embarrassed by his desires. Months ago, he couldn’t tell John what he wanted or needed. He didn’t want to believe that John might laugh, but he wouldn’t risk it. Yet, he couldn’t name the point it changed. He just knew that here, now, in this warmth, he was safe to be himself.

John rolled onto his back, his cock jutting from his body. Sherlock reached an arm out of the blanket for the bottle of lube, and slowly draped a stripe on each side of John’s erection. He dragged his hand through the slick wetness, and while John watched, Sherlock stroked his own hole, teasing the opening. He shouldn’t. He wanted John too badly as it was.

Slowly, he aligned himself over John, and felt his lover breach his body. John stopped just inside, and Sherlock groaned. “Don’t stop there. Don’t tease.”

John chuckled and slowly rolled his hips until he was fully inside. “You’re so fucking warm, and …” before he could finish that thought, Sherlock rolled his hips, moving as John remained still.

Sherlock was more stunning at that moment than ever before: atop John, eyes closed, head thrown back. That neck. He had one hand stroking his own cock and one worrying a nipple, his hips riding John, in tempo with his hand on his own cock.

John bucked; he had to. Lying still was going to kill him. Sherlock’s voice, making sounds but not words, ragged breathing. John knew he’d never felt as good as this moment. Never.

“Love. You. Love…” John said, through the tightening muscles and the erratic push into his orgasm. 

And he watched as Sherlock gave in and followed him over the edge, his come pooling on John’s belly. He slowly slid off John’s hips, and lay next to John, who curled on his side to cup Sherlock with his body. He draped his right arm over Sherlock’s pillow, but with his left hand, he couldn’t resist tracing Sherlock’s ass, down the cleft, and slipping a finger into Sherlock’s wetness, the lubrication mixed with still warm come. He already wanted Sherlock again, more so when Sherlock pushed his hips back, taking is as much of John’s finger as he could.

Engulfed in warmth and beautiful exhaustion, they slept in that position. John woke several hours later with a stomach rumble and an arm that had fallen asleep in an awkward position. He slipped out of bed and showered. When he returned to wake up Sherlock, he had a mug of tea for each of them and a plate of crackers and cheese and whatever fresh fruit they had ready sliced in the refrigerator. 

“Sherlock, baby. It’s time to wake up,” John sing-songed, kissing the top of his curls. Sherlock eventually sat up, and they drank tea and ate their impromptu dinner. John read a music educator journal and Sherlock made quiet comments about Facebook as he scrolled through on his phone. Their feet touched, John’s toes resting against the underside of Sherlock’s. 

 Eventually, Sherlock slipped the cheese and cracker plate off of John’s lap and the journal out of his grasp, all without waking John.

 Overall, making love in a bed had to be superior to in a pool. 

 

 ----

  
The next morning, still high from making, John and Sherlock arrived at school peaceful and smiling.   
   
“Please remember, John. Not all the children here are students. Some are older than we are. Be strong and don't play the games." Sherlock said as they parted ways at his classroom.  
   
John smiled at Sherlock, trying to convey what he couldn't say on campus, and turned to follow the sidewalk to his classroom.   
   
His text alert jangled.   
   
 ** _I love you, too --SH  
_**    
How could he smile wider? At that moment he knew they would weather it all.   
   
"Good morning, Dr. Watson," Sean said outside the chorus door. “You look happy today!"  
   
"I am, Sean. I'm going to...what's written on your cheek?" John said, staring at Sean's face.   
   
He'd written   
 **NO  
H8  
** in black marker on each cheek. The 8 in bold red.   
   
"What is that, Sean? Do your parents know you did this?" John's voice wavered as he asked.  He reached for Sean's shoulder and then pulled his hand back. He didn't want to do anything that could be misconstrued as inappropriate.   
   
"It's **NO H8**. I found it online last night. It's about accepting everyone as they are. I think what some people are saying about you and Mr. Holmes is wrong.  A bunch of us support you. Even Grandma did it." His eyes burned with his conviction.   
   
John couldn't hold back. He hugged Sean and whispered thank you.   
   
"You are amazing Sean," John said, wiping his eyes, "but you should wash that off. You're going to get in trouble." John ran his thumb over the marker on Sean's face.   
   
"No. We learned this in Civics. The US Supreme Court said students have a First Amendment right to protest. Tinker v. Des Moines. Principal Lestrade can't say anything." Sean almost crowed with pride. When the bell rang he ran to his seat. John texted Sherlock. 

  
   
 _God, what did you teach the 7th graders? Lestrade is so fucked. Just wait._

  
   
When the Gifted Civics class quietly filed into Sherlock's room, he looked at each child. He needed no time to deduce what John had been talking about: **NO H8**. More than two-thirds of the students had written it on their cheeks.    
   
Sherlock looked at the children sitting quietly, pen in hand poised to take notes.  He cleared his throat once, then again.   
   
“Let's review the worksheet on landmark Supreme Court decisions starting with Tinker v. Des Moines. Sean, would you start the discussion?”  
   
Within an hour, Lestrade sent out an email to all teachers asking for further information about the markered students. Sherlock responded to all:

  
   
 ** _You won’t like it, but the law says they have the right to do this._**

 __  
  
At dismissal, Mr. Lestrade read the afternoon announcements, ending with two special statements.

“First, the Administration asks students to please refrain from writing on their bodies. It is inappropriate for a school setting, regardless of the reason.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes; Lestrade didn’t understand a thing about children. With that announcement, he **_assured_** that more students would write **NO H8**. Or was that his plan? Sherlock had no idea anymore.

“Second, at dismissal, Sean Hudson and Siobhan Hudson, please report to the main office. Thank You.”

Siobhan’s friends stared at her in the thick silence of Mr. Holmes’ geography class as the intercom clicked off.  Whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

 

 

 

.   
 

 


	13. Principal Lestrade and the terrible, horrible, no good month

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing frightens school administrators more than activist students, and the Hudson students won't stand by and let people make fun of DW and Mr. Holmes. NO H8. It takes 2 young students to remind everyone how to act. And when a local TV news reporter shows up at JAMMS, Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade have to band together to try to stop everything from blowing up around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any words or characters you recognize belong to Hartswood/BBC. I love them. :)(
> 
> Thank you for your patience, once again. Our school year finished this week, and I was struggling with end of the year dithering and writing. Something had to give. Sadly, it was what I wanted to do, not what I needed to do.
> 
> To my re-birth mother, the one who believed in me before I had even put a word down on paper. You are my idol and now my friend. Hugs and counting the days til you are here and I can hug you properly. 221btls, I <3 u

**_Mama, Sean & I were called to the principal’s office. What are we gonna do._ **

****

**** _Wait til I get there. I will be RIGHT THERE._

 

Honey tossed her phone on the bed and threw on presentable clothes. No way that goddamn school was gonna talk to her kids without her there. She slammed the door without even bothering to lock it and drove the half mile to school.

“”Dammit!” Honey yelled in the empty car, slapping the steering wheel. She forgot about the parents clogging the parking lot, picking up their kids. And now  **_she_ ** was swallowed up by the car line, she had no way out. Shit!

 

            _Can you wait to talk til I get there? Stuck in car line!_

No response. Fuck! They were probably interrogating the kids right now without her. She called the school’s main office, but the phone rolled over to voice mail. She yelled her frustration at other cars, but mostly at herself.

 

\---

“Siobhan. Sean. Do you know why I called you here?” Principal Lestrade asked kindly. They sat in the two rigid chairs facing him, and he had pulled himself up as close to the desk as he could, ramrod straight. He didn’t introduce the gentleman in the suit sitting behind him.

Sean reached out to squeeze his sister’s hand, silently reminding her of Mom’s orders.

“Sir, I would prefer to wait until my mother gets here,” Sean said, voice wavering but strong. Siobhan nodded.

“Mr. Hudson, I understand what you’re saying,” Lestrade folded his hands on his desk.  “Let me ask you this. Can you explain what NO H8 means?”

Sean breathed out.  That was safe. “It’s a campaign to educate people that everyone is equal, no matter who they are or whom they love.”

“Who told you about this, Sean? Who suggested that you write this on your face?” Lestrade relaxed in his chair, hoping to keep Sean talking.

“No one told me!” he said proudly. “I was doing Civics homework, and I found it online. A bunch of famous people have done it, and I hate what people are saying about Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.” Sean came out of his seat, gesturing while he talked, trying to explain the importance—the _need_ to do this.

“But it does matter, Sean,” Lestrade said carefully. “You can’t write things on your body. That’s not appropriate behavior. And when you got your friends to do it, you’re getting them in trouble, too.”

“What?! We’re in **_trouble_**?” Siobhan said to Sean, her bottom lip quivering. “I’ve never been in trouble before. I’ve never been to the principal’s office before!” 

Sean tried to remain calm, but he was also on the edge of tears. How was this going all wrong? He was right. He _knew_ he was right. 

“Mr. Lestrade, um, respectfully, um, you’re….not right.”

Lestrade’s eyes opened wider as he raised his eyebrows.  “What did you say, son?” 

“You’re…wrong, sir. We can’t be in trouble. We learned about this in Civics. As students, our Constitutional rights don’t stop because we enter school, at least in this case. Tinker v. Des Moines. 1969. The Supreme Court said those students had the right to protest in school. We aren’t saying anything against you or the school. We’re protesting hate.”

“Sean and Siobhan. I’m asking you politely not to write on yourself again, and to call your friends and tell them not to, either.”  The ‘or else’ was implied in his tone. 

“Sir, I’d like to wait for our mom to get here before we say anything else.”

Lestrade had to hand it to the kids. The girl looked like she was going to shit herself, but the boy. He was trying hard to hold his ground. Another push, a small threat, might just work. 

“If you insist on writing that again, I will have no choice but to suspend you,” Lestrade sounded like they’d backed him into a corner through their unreasonableness.

“Siobhan. Sean. Wait for me out in the lobby.” Honey’s voice cut cold through Lestrade’s manipulation. Her children snagged their backpacks off the floor and ran. 

Her rage filled the room. “Did my children ask you to wait until I was here to talk to them? They wanted an adult with them in case you manipulated them, **like. you. did.”**

This week was going down in the books as the worst in Lestrade’s 10 years as a principal, and that was saying something. He pulled open the desk drawer and ripped at the bottle of antacids. And now this. A friggin’ caricature of a principal. That’s what he’d become. He chewed two and washed them down with cold coffee. 

Lestrade opened his mouth to speak, but it only fueled Ms. Hudson’s rant. 

“No. You don’t say anything. If this was about my children’s **right** to write on their cheeks, they DO have the right. Do your research. They can’t be suspended, and I sincerely HOPE you did not threaten them with that.” 

Lestrade reopened the bottle and shook out two more tablets. 

“And **YOU** ,” she jabbed her finger at the man in the suit sitting quietly against the wall. “ **You** know better. You’re a lawyer, for Christ’s sake, Mr. Holmes.” 

She looked them both in the eyes, and in a calm voice said, “My children will be in school tomorrow. They and their friends will protest hate that exists in this world. And they will do so for as long as they feel it’s necessary. If you want to speak to them again, you **will** contact either their father or me and we **will** be present for any and all questioning.” 

Honey took a deep breath and exhaled. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said, returning to her Southern manners and left the office.

“Fuck. We opened a goddamn can of worms, didn’t we,” Lestrade pulled at his hair as his fingers carded through it.

“Events may have gone more favorably if my advice had been followed to allow the situation to run its course,” Mycroft Holmes noted.                                                                            

"Well, advise me now,” Lestrade said, his face buried in his hands.

The office phone rang. “Fuck,” Lestrade snarled at the caller ID then clapped his hand over his mouth when he realized his office door was still open. “It’s the goddamn Superintendent of Schools.”  

He composed himself, answered the phone, and spent more time listening to her than speaking.

Mycroft moved to the couch in front of the desk and generated notes on what the children and Ms. Hudson had said. Neither scared him. But this case could blow and that  _did_ scare him.

“She said it would be in our best interest to make this disappear. Clearly, I couldn’t get a word in. Keep the kids under control. Keep the parents under control. What the **_fuck_** does she think I’m trying to do. Shit.”  Too late, he looked at the door. At least Holmes had shut it to avoid further embarrassment.

“My advice is to investigate Mr. Moriarty’s claims about Dr. Watson. Make it a grand show. Also, you might suggest to him to ask the students to stop protesting; then it isn’t coming from the administration, per se. Finally, pray that the school year ends soon.” Mycroft stood to leave, but Lestrade stopped him. 

“This coffee is disgusting. I’m gonna get a new cup from the cafeteria. You want one?” Lestrade picked up his coffee mug and pointed to the clean, empty cup on his desk.

“Yes. Perhaps I shall. We can create verbage for any questions we encounter.” Mycroft held the door open for Lestrade, who patted him on the shoulder as he walked out.

 

\---

 

John and Sherlock had promised themselves that they’d make every effort to leave work as close to dismissal as they could, believing it would reduce the chance of possible unpleasant encounters. They’d heard the announcement for the Hudson kids, but neither thought it appropriate to stay hoping to hear what the outcome was.

Both men agreed upon two other things: First, they would not display their affection during the school day on campus (school activities was still a point of contention); second, they would not hide their relationship at any other time. Because they were both fairly private, it went without saying that there would be no snogfests at the movies, or passionate shopping trips.

As they left school, John insisted they could no longer put off food shopping. He held his ground, even when he was certain Sherlock said, “Your obsession with eating is what slows your brain function to that of a slug.” 

Sherlock denied it vociferously, staring at the radio instead of John. “Oh look! It’s that new Fall Out Boy song you love.” He beamed a smile at John, who laughed at him and sang off key on purpose.

They wandered the supermarket aisles, laughing as Sherlock snuck things into the cart for John’s reaction. When they finally wound their way to check out, their basket held almost nothing healthy—several boxes of PG Tips which produced a proper British cup of tea, more candy than two men needed, eggs, cheese, white bread, and peanut butter. Sherlock managed to slip fruit and salad items in the basket to hide the bags of Haribo Star Mix. 

As John placed their items at the register, a woman called out to Sherlock. John’s stomach dropped; he looked at Sherlock whose hands had frozen on the phone. His posture, face, body language tried to block out an intruder. 

“Mr. Holmes! My daughter is in your class. Abi. She loves you. I’m so sorry about that video. Obviously, that was a private…Dr. Watson! Hi! Abi’s mom! Love you!” 

John was caught between shaking hands, hugging, unloading the groceries and smiling.

“Oh, it’s my turn! I left my buggy over on the other lane! I just wanted to say congratulations to you two!”

Like a whirlwind, she was gone. Which Abi? John had at least 3 in chorus 1 alone.  Sherlock slid his hand into John’s and squeezed. They never expected public support.  

The cashier, who barely looked out of middle school herself, scanned their items, keeping up a running commentary on their purchases. She loooooved Haribos, ugh Life Savers are too old school, bananas are sooo good for your leg cramps, try our store brand of Tylenol it’s waaaaay cheaper.

When she scanned the box of lubricant, ‘ _Hello! I’m Luci_!’ stopped talking. She looked up at them and back at the lube. She laughed out loud, and said “Wow. Gross.” She scanned it without a word and finished the order in silence. John loaded the bags into the shopping cart, his shoulders square, muscles in his jaw pulsing.

John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock tapped his shoulder and said, “I have this. Madam. I will say this in small words for you to understand. I am in no way interested in your comments on what I buy and whether you agree or disagree with my purchases. You are much too young to be so small minded.” He moved in closer to her, and whispered, “Yes, I fuck him hard and the lube makes it hotter. Think about that.” 

As he turned to leave, Sherlock said reasonably, “I suspect, after I finish speaking with your manager about your appalling behavior, you may wish you had some yourself.” He put his hand on the small of John’s back as they guided the cart out of automatic doors.

“Did you just? Did you REALLY have to?” John laughed at the look on the cashier’s face. 

“I won’t speak to her manager. I believe we have made a lasting impression,” Sherlock belly laughed, which John hadn’t heard since vacation. “However, we may wish to find another store where we can shop.”

John kissed Sherlock as they laughed and loaded the trunk with bags.

That night they pretended they were kids, mostly to forget their anger that threatened to overtake them. To start, Sherlock dared John to go into the pool again. He may be a sucker, but he wasn’t going to just cannonball in. 

“Jesus, Sherlock, why did she have a heater installed? It’s friggin’ freezing!” John said as he walked down the stairs into the shallow end. How did Sherlock always snooker him into going in first? John stood in the shallow end, arms wrapped around his middle, trying to warm himself by rubbing his arms. 

Sherlock, who’d yet to put a foot in the water, said disdainfully, “I’m sure it’s simply cooler than you’d expected. You have lived in Florida entirely too long, John. We are British and…” When he sank his right foot into the water, he yelled, “Holy fucking God in Heaven and all the saints!” John doubled over laughing, his face almost in the water. 

“Why in God’s name are we still in this pool? There are so many other things we could do! Get out, you twit!”  Sherlock hopped out of the pool and wrapped himself in a large towel. “How do I let you talk me into these escapades, John?”  

John curved his hand and splashed water at Sherlock, who jumped out of the way keeping his towel dry. All John succeeded in doing was soaking his own towel, laying on the deck. 

Back inside, they warmed themselves by hunkering down in bed under the comforter (clothing optional) with a Harry Potter dvd (“No, Sherlock. This is cultural knowledge. And being a Muggle doesn’t mean you don’t have to watch!”) and ice cream sundaes for dinner. 

Except that Sherlock wasn’t really paying as much attention to the movie as John was. And as he shifted in bed to reposition himself, he may have accidentally (on purpose) splashed melted ice cream sundae onto John’s belly.

“Clean me off, you pig. How did you manage spilling the ice cream on me?” John yelled. “And the sheets!” 

And Sherlock, who occasionally did listen to John, reached for a paper napkin on the bedside table and rolled toward John to tidy him. And John, who trusted too completely, never suspected that the rest of Sherlock’s melted sundae with vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup, mini M&Ms, and sprinkles sundae would be sloshed over his torso.

“Oh, let me clean that,” Sherlock said, slipping under the comforter and kissing a trail through the ice cream.

John agreed, grinning wickedly. “You made the mess, Sherlock. You clean it up.” 

Sherlock licked at the rivulets of ice cream and chocolate running down John's side. Flat tongue or flickering? Judging from John’s contented hmmmm of approval and growing cock, he chose long, wide, lazy swipes. Smearing the chocolate over one nipple, he nursed it off before sliding over to the other. That called for teeth and the tip of his tongue. John mewled, grabbing the back of Sherlock's neck and holding him at the nipple until all of the confection was gone.  
  
He felt Sherlock sit up, and when he cracked open an eyelid, John saw Sherlock eyeing the rest of the ice cream pooling on John’s abdomen.  
  
“Mmmmm,” John purred and said, “Come here you.”  
  
Sherlock leaned over John, who guided his mouth closer. John surprised him by suckling the tip of Sherlock's nose.  
  
"Chocolate," John explained, then licked Sherlock’s cheekbone. "Ice cream.”  He drew down to SH mouth with his tongue and kissed him, tasting the sweet flavors of Sherlock's mouth. "Love,” he said as he drew back.  
  
Sherlock growled now too and kissed John, tracing lips and teeth with tongue before pulling himself away.  
  
“Don’t go,” John begged, reaching for Sherlock’s hand.  
  
“I’m not leaving, love. I just have something I need to do.” Sherlock slid further down the bed, settling between John’s open legs. He dragged his finger through the warm mess on John’s belly and drew lines up John’s cock with the syrupy ice cream. 

Sherlock’s tongue danced around John’s length, cleaning the mess he’d made. Then, as John’s hand rested on the back of his head, Sherlock captured the next mess and swallowed it down.

John couldn’t move without slopping the ice cream goo onto Sherlock. Instead, he ran his hand through the ice cream took Sherlock’s cock into his hand. It wasn’t as effective as lube, but Sherlock was already so aroused by teasing John and capturing his orgasm that John only provided a few firm strokes and Sherlock collapsed, overcome.

They showered to remove the drying ice cream and took quite a long time because of goopy ice cream and mini M&Ms and sprinkles everywhere, and in no way because they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

Pulling towels out of the linen closet, Sherlock realized they had no clean sheets since they hadn’t washed the spare set yet. John favored sleeping on the bare mattress (acting like kids be damned. It was 11 pm and he was exhausted!) or going back to the twin size bed in his old room.

Sherlock stared at John, one eyebrow raised in disgust. John pulled on his underpants and gathered the dirty sheets and trudged to the laundry room. For his trouble pretreating and starting the laundry, Sherlock kissed him soundly and handed him a mug of tea, black no sugar, just as John liked it.

By the time they made the bed and fell into it, it was well past midnight. John kissed Sherlock goodnight and rolled on his side. Sherlock snuggled up behind him and kissed John’s bare shoulder. “Thank you for washing the sheets. And for washing me. You’re my favorite…” but before he could finish the sentence, Sherlock’s even breathing told John he was deep asleep. John pressed back into Sherlock’s curve and slept better than he had in days.

 

\---

 

When Greg Lestrade pulled into the school’s parking lot the next morning, there was no mistaking the WESH2 TV NEWS TEAM van taking up three spaces.

His mind formed one thought. ‘I am so fucked.’ Retirement sounded good, really good, right then. Before he left his car, he texted Mycroft Holmes.

_TV news crew here. Get here *now*._

 

At this rate, he’d see Holmes more this week than his own daughter. Well, bad example. It was her mom’s week.

Deep breath in and out. Checked his teeth and face. Ran his fingers through his hair.  Another deep breath to collect his thoughts and out of the car. 

No reporter or camera. 

Maybe it’s a coincidence that the van is parked in the school’s lot. No. He could almost hear Holmes saying, “The universe is rarely so lazy, Gregory.”

He’d barely entered the main office when the secretary called out, “Good morning, Mr. Lestrade!” On cue, a petite, perky brunette popped out of a seat in the waiting area.

“Mr. Lestrade! Sarah Sawyer from WESH2 Action News Team.” She held a microphone in her left hand as she extended her right to shake. “Do you have a few minutes to discuss the controversy here at JAMMS?”

“Certainly,” he said, his happiness sounding forced even to his own ears, “If I can have a few minutes to situate myself.” He gestured toward his briefcase and jacket.

The reporter sat back down, and Lestrade heartily greeted the office staff, wanting to appear as calm and normal as possible. But his shaking hands as he read his text and wide eyes told a different story.

        

            **_I am almost at Jesup Arts. Keep the reporter at bay. I shall attend_** ** _to it –MH_**

****

Sarah Sawyer, Jesup County reporter for WESH2 Action NewsTeam!, relaxed in the hard, molded-plastic chair in the main office. In her mind, she was jumping up and down gleefully at this career defining story. Big school district stomping on the little guy. Guys. What if they sued? What if it went to the Governor? The Supreme Court? Oh. My. God. She could be nationally known— 

“Ms. Janine, do you know if Mr. Holmes or Dr. Watson are here yet?” a small, slender blond boy asked the secretary. 

“I haven’t seen either come through this morning Sean, but they could sneak through the back,” the secretary said to the boy with **NO H8** written in marker on his cheeks.

**NO H8**. Sean. Sarah sat at attention. This was likely to be Honey Hudson’s son. She introduced herself. 

“Your Mama called me about your **NO H8** campaign,” she said. “Can we speak for a few minutes?” She gestured toward outside. 

Sean swallowed hard and hesitantly followed her. Then he took out his phone and dialed. “Mom? A reporter from Channel 2 wants to talk to me. What do I do?” He pressed his lips together as he listened and nodded. “Love you, too.” 

He followed the reporter outside the office to the sidewalk. “My mom said I can trust you,” Sean said, still wary after being blindsided by the principal.

“Tell me about **NO H8**. That’s safe, right?” Sarah Sawyer gestured imperceptibly at the camera man, who started recording as Sean explained.

Passionate about this subject, the 7th grader spoke with great hope that people could change. He spoke with innocence of the young, she thought. Where right and wrong were obvious and not complicated by the world of adults.

“What’s going on, Sean?” a melodic voice asked, coming from behind the reporter. Sean’s face brightened. 

“Hi Dr. Watson! Mr. Holmes! This is, um,” Sean stuttered, pointing to the reporter.

“Sarah Sawyer, WESH2 Action NewsTeam.” John rolled his eyes, shaking her extended hand. For no real reason except possibly the way her voice dropped when she said WESH2 Action NewsTeam, she made John’s skin crawl. “Ms. Hudson contacted me. May I ask you a few questions?”

Without waiting for an answer, she said, “Do you believe you are being persecuted for being openly gay?” 

“What?!” John sputtered, throwing his hands up.

Sherlock maintained more poise. “By ‘openly gay’ do you mean, coming to my career job in professional attire, teaching students from the district’s curricula, having my students score higher here than other students around the district, and then going to my own home to live my life?”

It was the reporter’s turn to stutter.

“Dr. Watson has a Ph.D. in music education. His choruses were recently judged Superior and Superior Plus. In addition, Dr. Watson and our drama teacher Ms. Hooper led our drama team, including young Mr. Hudson here, to Superior ratings at the state Thespians tournament in February. And then he went home to live his life.” 

John interrupted. “My private life no more affects my professional life than yours does,” he said to the reporter. “We cannot be fired for being gay. The question becomes, can parents circumvent that by asserting incompetence in the classroom.” 

“Such an assertion would need to be completely founded in documentation and parental complaints,” a posh voice said from behind the reporter. Rather than turn around, she trusted the cameraman to widen the angle and bring in the new participant into the filming. 

Mycroft introduced himself to the reporter and nodded at John and Sherlock. 

“We really do not have a statement to make,” Mycroft said smoothly, taking up the camera’s focus and allowing the two teachers to back away. 

“However,” he continued, “Whenever an administration receives comments or questions regarding a staff member, the claims must be investigated, for the sake of all involved. If we ignored the claims, we would be remiss on behalf of both parties.” In his lawyer double talk, he explained nothing and took several minutes to do so. 

It didn’t matter, Sarah thought, no longer listening to the bombastic lawyer. She could edit this into something good. Get Honey Hudson on camera as well as Jim Moriarty, and it would be finished. She motioned for the camera to stop filming, and she cut Mycroft off with an insincere thank you.

“I trust we will see a copy before it airs,” Mycroft pressured the reporter.

“Absolutely,” the reporter said, laughing inside at the ridiculous request.

 

\---

 

By the time the footage aired that evening on the 5pm, 6pm, 10pm and 11 pm news, Ms. Sawyer had spoken with not only the student, the lawyer and the two teachers involved, but also with the impassioned Moriartys.

When she knocked on their door, Sarah wasn’t even certain they would invite her in, let alone speak with her. Mrs. Moriarty grudgingly opened the door while Mr. Moriarty stood back, reserved and watching. The word Sarah thought was ‘calculating’.

When she asked their opinion about NO H8, James stopped her immediately. “The concerns we raised are with the quality of a teacher who routinely bullies our son. If a district has a zero tolerance policy on bullying, then it should apply to the faculty as well as the students.”  Hard to argue with that. 

One well timed question from Sarah, asking why the new chorus director would (in their words) ‘have it out’ for their son, and Mrs. Moriarty’s cool presence broke apart. 

“Probably because we live a righteous life, and he’s offended by who we’ve raised our son to be,” Mrs. Moriarty said, matter of fact. Sarah had expected this woman to be small and mousy, cowed by her husband, but instead of mousy, she had the look of a snake. Disinterested and harmless until it struck its blow. “A child of God, a principled and faithful servant.”

These two parents and their webpage about the horrors of gay teachers. They quoted chapter and verse from the Bible, which denounced homosexuality as evil. These people were believers in the Word of God. Sarah was too, attending to her spiritual faith through church and prayer. Things just didn’t seem so black and white to her, though.

“Of course we accept that some people choose to be homosexual,” Jim Moriarty offered. “But our guide to what is natural and good is Scripture. God wants us to be set free from sin and its corrupting power by following His word.”

Jim introduced the reporter to their 20 year old son, a child in a grown man’s body. The brain damage he received in the beating was so devastating, he functioned cognitively on the level of a kindergartener. The parents explained exactly how homosexuality was directly responsible for their son’s suffering.

“The trolls outside that disgusting bar were looking for a queer to beat up. Our son was in the wrong place, and they chose him. They beat him, kicked him, almost killed him,” Mrs. Moriarty struck out with her words, then softened as she turned around to pick up the stuffed animal that her son had dropped. “His body healed but his mind never will, all because someone thought it was ok to have a bar where queers could go to have sex. I know the liberals will jump all over what I’m saying. But maybe they should come here and see this.” She stood on her toes to kiss her son’s cheek. Almost as tall as his dad, his mind would never catch up. 

Sarah nodded, listening, mentally editing the tape. This was incredible. The camera rolled the entire time, taking in all of the family’s interactions and comments. 

As Sarah climbed into the Action NewsTeam’s van, her mind swirled. How the hell was she gonna cut _that_ interviewdown to a sound bites?! And were they wrong? Or were they blaming the victims for the wrongs of the perpetrators.

The next stop was the last interview. Honey Hudson opened the door, one hand filled with typed and stapled papers. 

“Agenda for tomorrow night’s PTA meeting. We usually only get a handful of people who come out, maybe 5 or 6 die-hards. But we’re required to print up 30 agendas.” She shrugged her shoulders in a ‘go figure’ motion, and led the reporter to the dining room table where she continued to staple the pages of the agenda.

“No, Matt and I didn’t even nudge the kids. Taking part in the **NO H8** campaign was Sean’s idea and Siobhan emphatically agreed. We explained the risks, but Sean’s had a great Civics teacher this year. Sherlock Holmes taught them what our Constitution says, and Sean knew he was right.”

Sarah looked at this suburban stereotype: jeans and a t-shirt. PTA volunteer. Stay at home mom. “How did you become friends with these two gay men?”

Honey stared her down and took a deep breath before speaking. “We became friends with two incredible teachers. Neither had a place to go for Thanksgiving, and I asked them to join us as I have done many times to teachers. These men are funny, intelligent, incredibly talented people. Teachers. They are neither objects to be shamed and ridiculed nor to be made into heroes or icons. They’re men.” 

Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be baited into speaking ill of the school or those who opposed the two men. Sarah did notice it took an extra few seconds of breathing before Honey could answer questions about the Moriartys’ motives. 

“I can’t answer for them,” she said. “In the end, there’s only one judge, and I’m not Him.” 

As Honey saw Sarah out of the house, she asked when this would air on the news. 

“Oh, easily tonight,” Sarah said, her mind filling with quotes and images, quick editing to say what she wanted to convey without seeming heavy handed or biased.

“Awesome!” Honey said, taking the agendas to her car. “Maybe an extra person will come to tomorrow night’s meeting!” 

Honey sent text messages to her kids to let them know they might be on the news that night, and the kids mentioned it to their friends. Some teachers overheard and chatted about it in the teachers’ lounge, and some teachers who supported the movement may have mentioned it to their classes.

 

\---

Later on, after the story about activist students aired 4 times in one night, the Moriartys would say they  _knew_ the interview would turn out that way. That the  _bitch_ would edit the tape to make them seem ignorant and foolish and didn’t even show a picture of Teddy and what the faggots had done to him—which would hurt Sarah Sawyer, since she had diligently worked to give their arguments credibility. She didn’t agree with them, but news wasn’t mockery.

 

_(transcript of WESH Action NewsTeam clip)_

_(Sarah Sawyer: I’m Sarah Sawyer, here on the campus of Jesup Arts Magnet Middle School in Lake Jesup County. Students here have combined their education from the state’s newly mandated 7 th grade Civics course with activism._

_(Video interview of Sean Hudson): “We learned that students have the Constitutional right to protest in school, and when people started saying mean things about two of our teachers, it made me angry. No one has the right to hate.”_

_(Sarah Sawyer voice over, video of students): “Sean and his sister Siobhan wrote the words NO H8 on their faces, inspired by the campaign of the same name. According to their website, their mission is to promote marriage, gender and human equality through education, advocacy, social media, and visual protest._

_(Video interview of Siobhan Hudson): “Once our friends knew why, that it was about Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, they did it too. We love Dr. Watson; he’s an awesome chorus teacher. And Mr. Holmes makes us work hard so we can be the best students we can be.”_

_(Sarah Sawyer): At the heart of this protest is whether homosexuals should be allowed to teach. These men were outed on Facebook when a student posted a Vine, taken without their knowledge while they were on vacation.)_

_(Vine video plays; Sarah Sawyer voice over): The two returned amid questions about their morals and competence as teachers._

_(Video Interview of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson): (Holmes) “My_ _students are scoring higher than other history students around the district, and Dr. Watson brought home Superior ratings for his boys’ and his girls choruses, including a Superior **plus** for Chorus II.”_

_(Watson): “My private life no more interferes in my professional life than yours does. The question becomes, can parents circumvent the district policy by asserting incompetence in the classroom.”_

_(Sarah Sawyer voice over, video of School Board Lawyer, Mycroft Holmes): A parent has done just that._

_(M. Holmes): “Whenever an administration receives comments or questions regarding a staff member, the claims must be investigated, for the sake of all involved.”_

_(Sarah Sawyer, voice over): “The complainants, James and Suzanna Moriarty assert that Dr. Watson uses questionable teaching methods, and that he is punishing their son for posting the video on Facebook.”_

_(Video Interview of Jim Moriarty): “If a district has a zero tolerance policy on bullying, then it should apply to the faculty as well as the students.”_

_(Sarah Sawyer, voice over): According to District documentation, Dr. Watson has an exemplary record as a teacher in his first year._

_(video of the webpage)_

_(Sawyer): The Moriartys created this webpage asking other parents for feedback about the role of homosexual men in the schools._

_(Video Interview of Jim Moriarty): “We accept that some people choose to be homosexual, but our guide to what is natural and good is Scripture. God wants us to be set free from sin and its corrupting power by following His word. And it’s difficult knowing someone is teaching our children who openly violates His word. Look at our webpage. The parents have spoken. The taxpayers have spoken.”_

_(Sarah Sawyer voice over, video of students faces blurred but NO H8 visible): But on the campus of Jesup Arts Magnet Middle, it’s the students who have spoken._

_(5pm edition, news anchor asks): “What do other parents say?”_

_(5pm edition, Sarah Sawyer answers, reading from her notepad: One mother said, “We love these two men. They are outstanding teachers, but they aren’t heroes or icons. They’re private men living a private life.” [looking up at camera] The District will have to wrestle with two questions. First, can someone subvert the firing process by asserting negligence? Second, have the students shaken the proverbial hornet’s nest?)_

Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, who’d gone to a pub near the board office for dinner and a strategy session, watched the 5pm news slack jawed.

Lestrade dropped his head into his hands, wishing for his life that he hadn’t eaten the greasy fish and chips. He knew with his luck this week, dinner would come back up any minute, which would be especially mortifying in front of his very proper dinner companion.

Holmes pinched the bridge of his nose, pursed his lips and breathed in, wanting nothing more than to forget he had a brother. Especially one on the news.

Sounding defeated, Holmes said, “Clearly we did not sweep this under the rug, as the Superintendent had hoped we would. You are correct, Gregory. It’s time to come up with a game plan.”


	14. People Who Live in Glass Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The JAMMS PTA meeting is filled to capacity, expecting juicy details of the current drama that James Moriarty has stirred up. Thanks to Mycroft, *no one* is disappointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you've heard it before, I (sadly) do not own it. 
> 
> Serious apology to Roberts Rules of Order, which I'm pretty certain I made a shambles of.
> 
> Also, most sincere apologies for abusing the Pokemon theme song and for getting it stuck in my daughter's head for months. Sorry Maga :)
> 
> With the exception of the call letters, anything I wrote about FoxNews35 and WESH2 is completely fiction. ;)
> 
> As always, 221btls is my muse. Any errors in this chapter are mine alone, as I was too rambunctious and posted it without her amazing beta-ing.

“Maybe an extra person or two will come to our PTA meeting,” Honey Hudson had said the day before, as she ushered the reporter out of her house.

She gathered the 30 stapled sets of agendas and the tote bag with one jug of apple juice and one box of store brand chocolate chip cookies and set out for the PTA’s April meeting. Last month only the executive board had attended and even then, it was only half of them. On the brief drive she focused on the agenda. During the open comment portion, she would beg people to speak, to figure out how to generate more attendance.  Obviously, posting it on the school’s marquee wasn’t enough.

She found the custodian to unlock the Media Center (“I always call it the library,” she laughed). They heard the commotion before she saw the throng of people.

“What’s going on?” she asked the custodian, who seemed just as confused.  “I hope it won’t interfere with our meeting,” she joked.

It didn’t take long to realize the crush of people _were_ the meeting. She caught pieces of conversations and arguments as she pushed through the crowd to the media center door.

“…best chorus teacher…”

“…I don’t know what I think…”

“…ridiculous…”

“…homo-sexuals don’t belong…”

“…new basketball uniforms…”

Basketball uniforms?! Someone actually was here for the original meeting. How did she not anticipate this would happen after the news story?

The crowd filled the seats in the library, with some philistines sitting atop the shorter bookcases. A sizeable group separated themselves, focused on what someone at the center was saying. James and Suzanne Moriarty holding court. Shit just got real.

Honey’s hands trembled as she pulled out the plastic cups and the completely inadequate juice and cookies. She handed the agendas to one of the vice presidents to distribute. 

“S’ok, Honey,” Mrs. Turner said, taking the agendas. “We can do this.” Honey hugged her and turned away to text Sherlock and John.

  

            _PTA mtg huge. People here 2 talk, inc. Moriarty_

 

She hit send and when she looked up, saw everyone turned toward the door. **_Now_** shit got real. Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes moved easily between the tables, stopping to chat and Lestrade introducing the School Board’s lawyer to various parents. Great. Just great.

Those two have been joined at the hip since this started. She wanted to say, “Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

            

_Your brother and Lestrade are here now. If you come, you can talk, too._

She and Mrs. Turner called the meeting to order at 5:01pm. She read the prior month’s minutes, motioned and seconded. By fast multiplying the number of chairs filled as she handed out the agendas—plus people standing against the back wall, sitting on the bookcases and in some instances even sharing chairs—Mrs. Turner figured at least 100 people were there, wrongly assuming the meeting was about the current drama.

Honey quickly covered old business over the hum of the crowd and moved on to new business. Mrs. Turner, in between the two discussions, announced it was time for the monthly passing of the hat, and all donations today would help support the new girls’ lacrosse team that would be starting in the fall. 

“Unlike other schools, sports gets the short shrift here because we are an arts school. 100% of your donations today will support that team!” Mrs. Turner added, ingenously creating the ‘monthly passing of the hat’ in that moment. People opened their wallets waiting for the donation bucket. 

“In new business Mr. Lestrade would like to address the current events,” Honey stepped out of the way, offering the spot of carpet to the principal. She saw Assistant Principal Adler in the back corner of the library, head close to Sally Donovan’s and furiously whispering as Lestrade spoke.

“Here at JAMMS, we support all of our faculty, staff and students. We are proudly a 100% bully free zone. You may have heard that a complaint was raised regarding one of our teachers. We are researching that complaint and will take all required actions.” 

Years ago, Greg perfected an easy smile while still appearing serious and deeply caring while still possibly not listening. Also double speak. But he and Mycroft had crafted today’s statement and worked on Lestrade’s presentation. They had assumed it would be for an interview, but the PTA meeting would be good practice.

Until Greg spied the two attendees who had slipped in unnoticed. That damn reporter and her cameraman. Smile back on, deep breath. Focus on the crowd and say,

“Thank you for supporting JAMMS and our PTA. You can expect a letter home or a note on our website regarding the resolution of the complaint.”

“Can we?” a voice rose from the left side of the room.

“I’m sorry,” Lestrade’s smile faltered for a second before he stopped himself. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“ _Can_ we look forward to a resolution,” James Moriarty stood and asked. “Or will it be swept under the rug as you pander to the liberals.”

“I think we can all agree that it will be impossible to sweet this under the rug after last night,” Lestrade quipped, quirking a half smile as the people laughed.

Honey Hudson slipped forward and whispered, “Fox News 35,” tilting her head to the left. Dammit. Two stations.

“Mr. Moriarty, you raised the initial issue about a teacher bullying your son in the classroom. We are investigating and…”

“But it’s not really about bullying, is it?” a velvet voice asked from the back, unhurriedly moving to the front. “Because that was your mistake.” The heads turned to find and follow the voice. Tall, elegant, intelligent Mr. Holmes. Trailed by Dr. Watson who waited as Sherlock spoke.

“It was your mistake choosing the kindest, most gentle man in the entire school to accuse of bullying. You assumed that, as a first year teacher, he would be the easier of the two of us to fire, because you don’t want fags, queers, poufs, homos, teaching your son. Knowing we couldn’t be fired for being gay, you attempted to subvert the system. To attack Dr. Watson’s credentials and his character.

“And that. That was fatal. Because Dr. Watson’s character is above reproach.”

Whispering had underscored Sherlock’s speech. But all were silent now.

“If you were truly worried about bullying in class, you would have attacked me. I bully children, and I’m certain each of you have heard how terribly unreasonable I am. Why earlier this year, Mrs. Hudson’s daughter ran crying from my class because I had the audacity to suggest she could have been more thorough on her homework.”

John chuckled. That was the first time he’d heard Sherlock’s name. Thought he’d be a wanker. Well, he _was_ , but…

Sherlock’s voice, the timber and depth of it, crept around the tables and chairs, between the people standing, and wrapped them in its velvet and insisted on their attention.

“Coaches bully students. The administration bullies students,” Sherlock looked back at Lestrade, whose eyebrows were raised and whose mouth now formed an O. “No offense intended of course,” he offered to Lestrade, who simply shrugged an acceptance.

“Therefore, I can only deduce it was not your intention to actually solve that problem,” Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his pursed lips.

When Mrs. Moriarty stood, face flushed and hands clenched, Honey stopped her before she could open her mouth. “Mr. Holmes has not ceded the floor; therefore do not have the right to speak, according to Roberts Rules of Order. Please take your seat.” Mrs. Moriarty still stood, and Honey repeated forcefully, “Please. Take. Your. Seat,” with no actual please implied.

Suzanne Moriarty fell back into her chair, shocked at Honey’s demeanor. She turned to her husband and whispered furiously, gesturing toward Honey and Sherlock.

As he spoke, Sherlock wove his way between the tables, looking directly at people, forcing eye contact when they would prefer not to face him. “It is also idiotically simple to deduce that the Moriartys are leading the charge to have Dr. Watson dismissed. Their concern for their son only manifested itself upon seeing a video of Dr. Watson and me sharing a private moment on vacation. They videotaped us without our permission, posted it online without our permission, and then cried moral outrage. Setting a proper example for one son in the name of another, they created a webpage that’s only purpose was to incite ugliness.”

By the time he finished speaking, he was standing at the Moriartys’ table. 

“And,” Sherlock said, head cocked so he could force Jim to look at his face, “If we are addressing bullying, using perceived parental power to have someone fired certainly fits the definition.”

With a flourish, Sherlock moved back to the center of the room, the Moriartys and their ilk angrily commenting, not keeping their voices down.

The reporter from FOX35 smiled gleefully from the back of the room. His camera man caught every whisper and accusation, and there was nothing Fox liked better than drama and confrontation.

“Madam President, I yield the floor to Dr. John Watson.” Sherlock swept away to the side of the library.

John stammered, unprepared to speak. But as he walked to the front of the meeting, he held his shoulders square and head upright. He smiled at those who supported him as well as those there to tear him down.

“This has been a wonderful year for me here at JAMMS. Your children are a blessing to me, and I hope, in some way, I have helped them become better singers. I could list our accomplishments, all firsts for JAMMS. But you already know them. I could list Mr. Holmes’ accomplishments. But you already know them. What I want you to take away from this meeting is that I am proud, so very proud, of your children, of this school, and of who I am. Thank you. I cede the floor back to our principal.” He worked a path to Sherlock, stopping along the way to shake hands or for words of support.

Lestrade moved again to the front, but asked the School Board lawyer to speak in his place.

“I am Mycroft Holmes, the School District’s lawyer since 2008. I have conducted the investigation into the charges levied against Dr. Watson.” Mycroft had none of the style, none of the verve of his brother, but he was well spoken and projected authority. “In no way can I recommend any action against this educator. His administrative assessments have been exemplary and 82% of all parents I interviewed rated Dr. Watson as excellent or higher.”

John released a breath he’d held since the final day of vacation. He reached down and entwined his smallest finger with Sherlock’s and watched his smile grow.

When Mycroft ceded the floor to Mrs. Hudson, she opened it for additional comments.

“Madam President. I expect to receive the same courtesy of the Rules of Order as I speak,” James Moriarty asserted as Honey recognized him.

“For a week,” Moriarty said from the front of the meeting, “we have been treated to Constitutional law discussions, yet the more conservative among us have had our voices silenced. I have the right to have moral, upstanding teachers for my son. Our tax dollars pay the salaries. We say homosexuals do not belong in our classrooms where they can influence our impressionable children.

“Our schools are drug-free zones; drugs are illegal within a thousand yards of our schools to save our children from becoming addicted. Our campuses are smoke=free zones, to save our children's health. But we allow homosexuals in our schools, exposing our children daily to their perversion. We need to protect our children from the gay agenda. ”

A few people applauded. Many looked at him, horrified.

“Mr. Moriarty. What do you recommend? Rounding up gay people and caging them inside fenced areas?” Mrs. Hudson asked, seething.

“Do not insult me by comparing me to Hitler,” he shot back, staring at her. He barely contained his loathing.

Mycroft Holmes walked toward Mr. Moriarty. Lestrade reached out to grab his wrist to bring him back, unsure what Holmes intended. Holmes smiled at him and shook off Lestrade’s hand.

“Mr. Moriarty, may I have a private word with you,” Mycroft inquired, as if asking for another cup of tea.

“I don’t wish to speak with you at this time,” Moriarty remained calm and rational.

“I believe you would prefer…”

“Do not presume to know what I would prefer. That is exactly the problem in this school district. You don’t listen.” He radiated anger and loathing.

Equally calm and rational, Mycroft extracted a piece of paper from his portfolio. Slipping his glasses from his jacket’s inner pocket, he perched them near the end of his nose and offered, “Again, Mr. Moriarty…”

“Obviously you need to show us how clever you are, Mr. Holmes. How remarkably like your brother you are,” James sneered. “Please. Read your document.”

“This is a police report from March 17, 1982, Fort Lauderdale. Spring Break. College sophomore James Moriarty was arrested for solicitation of a police officer. A **_male_ ** police officer…”

“That was a misunderstanding,” Moriarty sputtered, his face mottled. “Those charges were dropped.” The noise in the room rose so loud that Honey could barely think over the gasps of outrage.

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, looking over the half-moon glasses toward their table. “Clearly Mrs. Moriarty already knew.” People turned to find her, in shock—her face white save for the small red swaths over her cheekbones. Her hand clenched her mouth as she blinked back tears.

James leaned down to whisper to her, but Mycroft cut him off.

“Continuing. In 1996, one James Moriarty of Lake Jesup County was arrested for public indecency,” Mycroft held up an 8x10 photo of Moriarty’s mug shot. Red rimmed, glassy eyes, suggestion of a beard. Still something haughty in the sneer.

Mycroft read from the booking report: “Accused approached an off duty policeman in a men’s bathroom at an Orlando Magic game. After a brief conversation, the accused exposed himself to the victim and offered to pay for a sexual encounter.”

In the silence of the room, a small, broken voice said, “Jim. How could you.”

“Another misunderstanding!” Moriarty shouted over the now noisy group. He sat down and tried to take his wife’s hand. She drew back from him in shame and disgust. “Teddy was only two,” she barely whispered.

“Shall I continue?” Mycroft asked. Moriarty shook his head. Although he acknowledged defeat, nothing in his body language suggested surrender. 

"Expect my son to be withdrawn from this school tomorrow," Moriarty announced as he stormed out of the Media Center, Mrs. Moriarty in his wake. 

Honey Hudson closed the floor to further discussion and adjourned the meeting as quickly as she could. No one moved, unsure what else juicy would be revealed if they waited in their seats.

WESH2 and FOX35 ran for the library’s double doors, hoping to make the 6pm broadcast.

Lestrade approached John and Sherlock. “I am truly sorry that you two went through this.” He shook their hands in hesitant apology. “People shouldn’t judge before they understand,” he said thoughtfully. “I was wrong. About a lot of things.”

Mycroft came up behind Sherlock. He raised his hand to clap his brother’s back but reconsidered. He dropped it lightly on Sherlock’s shoulder and gently rubbed.

“I hope, in some small measure, I was able to help you and Dr.—you and John.” He turned to John and said, “I did not wish for you two to go through that. I had tried several times privately to influence Mr. Moriarty to see reason; however, his grief over his son is too great.”

“Thank you, Mycroft,” Sherlock choked out. In his life, he couldn’t remember ever saying those words, not even after rehab. And this had likely cost Mycroft the judgeship he had hoped for.

“I do not know if I helped. My fear is that I have stirred the proverbial hornet’s nest. Again, please be careful of him and his wife.” Mycroft nodded a good bye to the two of them. “Gregory, if there is more we need to discuss, please contact me.”

Lestrade hesitated and suggested, “Yeah. Maybe we should see what is on the news tonight and how it plays out.”

“Indeed. I shall find a table at that pub where we were yesterday. Join me when you are free.” Mycroft walked out with his driver, who John was pretty sure was former military.

Honey hugged John and Sherlock at the same time. “Oh. My. GOD. I had no idea that was going to happen. And the Moriartys. Oh my God. It was like watching a movie. No, a tennis match, back and forth.” She released them from her arms and said, “Now, you don’t have to leave JAMMS!” 

 

\----

That evening, John and Sherlock joined the Hudsons for dinner of leftovers and laughter. Once the children were in bed (and they were reasonably sure the children were actually asleep), Honey recounted the meeting in detail (that woman’s ability to remember minutia was uncanny), down to the scorn on Jim’s face and the abject loathing on Suzanne’s.

It was late when Sherlock and John excused themselves and took the Jaguar back to their home. In quiet celebration, they made love. Slow and sweet at first, with touches and light kisses, but as they realized the weight had been lifted, they fought for the physical release of their emotions. Sweaty, sated, they lay together, breathing deeply.

“You’ve brought so much to my life,” Sherlock said, gently stroking John’s head which rested on Sherlock’s shoulder. “You’ve taught me to love and to be loved.”

John looked up, into the eyes that defied description. “Each day, love. You teach me, and I’ll teach you. Forever.”

Sherlock kissed John, and they fell asleep, gathering strength for what the next day would bring.

 

 

 


	15. LaoTsu says, Loving Someone Deeply Gives You Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the last few weeks of the 2013-2014 school year, Sherlock and John are buffeted by surprises. With good friends and a good love, they welcome it all. Indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy Katzenjammer Kids! Here's the last chapter for y'all. Thank you so, so much for joining me on this journey. I didn't know I could do it, and I'm going to miss these boys, but not for too long ;} I had another one of my brilliant ideas today, as I was finishing this up. Once you've read the chapter (SPOILAHS!) I'll tell you what the next fic will be!
> 
> I've referred to two songs in this chapter: OneRepublic's "I Lived." God, I love what that song says: own every second of your life. You can listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KINfQbfZwik&list=RDKINfQbfZwik
> 
> The other is (don't hate me) the Pokemon theme song. I started naming my FF with song titles/lyrics (because my BFF 221btls does and I lurv her), and I needed a song with the word teach in it. How, with all the Pokemon accoutrement in my house, did I NOT know the theme song? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JuYeHPFR3f0
> 
> Yes, there is such a thing as Orlando Gay Days. First week in June. Yes, over 200k people. Yes, there is such a thing as the Orlando Gay Chorus http://www.orlandogaychorus.org/

One evening in mid-May when the sky still wavered between darkness and day, Sherlock, John, and the Hudsons gathered around the flames of the new fire pit Sherlock had bought. Emma Hudson tidied up the remnants of the impromptu barbecue they’d hosted and fussed when Honey stood up to help. The three kids dove and floated in the pool while the adults gossiped.

“I heard that Suzanne Moriarty is homeschooling Joey, not even putting him in a private school. Today a mom told me that she’d seen Jim Moriarty dragging suitcases and boxes to his car the night of the PTA meeting,” Honey said, fending off Emma’s concern. “I guess Mycroft _did_ surprise Suzanne with those revelations.”

No one responded, thinking about the mess Moriarty had made of his life and his marriage.

“I visited Mycroft today,” Sherlock offered with a visible shiver that made Honey laugh. “Of course he wouldn’t answer any of my questions—lawyer/client privilege and such—but from the lingering aroma of men’s cologne, Jim Moriarty had been there that day. Obviously he was attempting to hire Mycroft as his divorce lawyer, wanting him to be as ruthless against Mrs. Moriarty as he was at the PTA meeting. I believe he will be suing for full custody of both boys. Mrs. Moriarty will be merciless in her retaliation.”

Sherlock stopped to take a breath and looked at the other adults, staring at him open-mouthed.

“What did I say? Any of you could have determined all of that.”

“No, Sherlock,” John said, standing up and kissing him on the cheek. “Not anyone.” John left to fetch the tea tray.

“None for me,” Honey called. “I’ll just have another water, please!”

Sherlock looked at her and smiled. Honey turned away, calling to the kids in the pool to come out for drying off and dessert.

“I have a surprise for three terrific kids and a few so-so adults,” John said, setting down a platter filled with graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate bars.

“S’mores!” they yelled, including Matt. Sean and Siobhan grabbed the long forks for roasting marshmallows and jockeyed for position around the fire pit.

“And for us adults, something a little more decadent,” John said, adding caramel sauce on the graham crackers.

“We have a surprise, too.” She held Matt’s hand and smiled and said, “There’s going to be another Hudson. We’re having a baby.”

The children squealed and hugged Honey. Sherlock pumped Matt’s hand, and John gingerly hugged Honey. “I won’t break,” she said, laughing. “And Sherlock, thank you for not saying anything.” She hugged him gently, and he wrapped his arms around her waist.

“When!” Sean asked. “When will you have the baby?”

“I hope it’s another girl,” Siobhan said, planning an estrogen take-over of her brother.

“Is it a puppy? I like puppies!” Kiera asked, swiping the rest of Emma’s half-eaten s’more.

“You knew?!” John asked over the noise, shocked that Sherlock wouldn’t have shared that news.

“Well, I did recognize the signs,” he said. “If you would observed tonight, you would have known. I think the baby should be due in—late October?” Honey nodded happily.

“I prefer it MY way,” John said, hugging Honey once more. “I like surprises.”

When the kids’ mouths were stuck together with gooey marshmallows, Honey said, “Matt and I would like you and Sherlock to be the godparents. We already spoke to our priest who assured us that we don’t need a god _mother_ and god _father._ So? What do you think?” She smiled hesitantly.

“We would be honored. Most honored,” Sherlock said, repeating himself in shock.

“We’ll be the best godparents a baby can have!” John could barely get the words out, trying to keep his emotions steady.

“You’re part of our family now,” Matt Hudson smiled.

“We couldn’t be part of a better one,” John said, tears welling.

“If you’re family now,” Siobhan said conspiratorially, “You’ll have to call me by my right name, not my real name. Call me BonBon.”

Sherlock said, “Bon…Bon? Like…candy?” This was too much for him to process in one night.

John laughed at Sherlock. “You should have told us from the start.” 

“Well, I thought it was a baby name. But I know now that BonBon is part of who I am, and I’m proud of that,” she stood up a bit straighter. “You taught me that, Uncle John and Uncle Sherlock.”  Uncle? _That_ was going to take getting used to.

“As long as people are spreading good news…” John hesitated. “Because of all the commotion and publicity, I seem to be something of a local celebrity. And, well, I’ve been named Grand Marshall of the Orlando Gay Days annual parade next month.” He seemed embarrassed, but Sherlock reached for his hand and squeezed.

“Apparently it’s a huge event. They expect over 200,000 people to come for it. I’ll be— _we’ll_ be—riding in this classic Pontiac convertible, waving and smiling. But, it’s so _public._ It’s kind of embarrassing.” John looked down instead of at his friends, his face flushed.

“It’s kind of **_cool_ ** ,” Matt said.

Sherlock smiled at Matt and rubbed his thumb over the back of John’s hand. John squeezed in return, a silent ‘I love you.’

 

\---

 

Throngs of students milled around the front of the JAMMS auditorium before the final chorus concert of the year. Boys in black pants and white button down shirts, girls in black skirts and white tops, the few lucky girls in the song and dance choir wearing “Jaguar Red” dresses—dubbed so in honor of Sherlock’s car. In small pockets they sang and practiced their dance routines to exorcise preshow jitters.

One surprising and welcome result of Dr. Watson coming to JAMMS was that students actually liked Mr. Holmes now. While most weren’t any happier about their grades, at least they looked sadder when he handed back the papers, as if they had somehow let him down personally. 

The audience outnumbered the available seats in the auditorium. Each concert the crowd increased, drawing not only the singers’ relatives, but faculty and students to enjoy their performance and with reason. This past year, with John as director, the quality of their voices and performance jumped from ‘painful on the ears’ to ‘when is the next concert?’

For 45 minutes, these middle school students sang solo and choral pieces. Four part harmonies, some spiritual, some from Broadway. As the concert drew to a close, the junior, senior, and boys’ choruses joined together for one final song. Over 200 students stood on the stage grouped on performance risers.

John took a deep breath and smiled at all of his students.  “This is it,” he whispered. “This is our last one! I love you all!” A few students barely held their tears in check.

He faced the audience and said, “This is our last song tonight. It’s one you may not know, but I love this song, not only for its tune, but also for the message. I wish this for every one of your children.”

From the wings, a bow bounced off the violin’s strings, the spicatto notes underscoring the alto section, who began the song, “I Lived” by One Republic.

Still playing, Sherlock strode from the wings onto the stage but stood to the side, not to overshadow the evening’s performance stars. John stole glances at Sherlock, who played with his eyes riveted on John. As he conducted, John pointed to his eye, his heart, and Sherlock—I heart you—which he hoped would go unrecognized by the audience as simply part of his conducting.

John's favorite part was the refrain.  He almost never sang with the chorus, but tonight he needed to. _"I owned every second that this world could give; I saw so many places, the things that I did. Yeah, with every broken bone I swear I lived."_

By the last note of the song, 8th graders moved from their risers to gather around Dr. Watson. They handed him flowers, and an enthusiastic student dragged Sherlock out onto the stage to take a bow.

One student spoke on behalf of the 8th graders. “Dr. Watson, this year you taught us more than scales and singing. You showed us how to stand up for what’s right, to be ourselves, and to own every second of our lives.” She kissed his cheek and he hugged her, lifting her a few inches from the floor.

“Thank you,” John said. My God, what is the matter, he thought as he swept at tears in his eye. “It’s been my privilege to know all of you this year.” He quietly asked the 8th graders to scoot back to their places.

He took another deep breath and spoke to the crowd. “Your support of me as a teacher and personally kept me going when I wasn’t sure that I could. So, I, uh, wanted you to hear this from me: I’ve been offered a job as the director of the Orlando Gay Chorus.”

The audience gasped, and a few even catcalled boos.

“Ironically, if I hadn’t received the publicity I did this past year, I would never have been approached for the job. So something good came out of that terrible time.”

Siobhan rushed from her spot in the front row and bear hugged John.

“I hate to leave you all, but it's a dream for me to be able to conduct, teach and pursue composing my own songs,” John explained. “But I will be right here for your shows next year.”

With that, he said good night and instructed the chorus to remain for photos before dismissing the students.

Sherlock stood against the front of the stage and watched John easily greet parents who were upset and children who were distraught. He also observed enough parents who were happy at the news that John was leaving. He knew why.

After a half-hour, he finally extricated John from well-wishers. Sherlock wanted to take John home for the private celebration he’d planned.

 

\---

 

The last few days of school wound down quickly, packing classroom supplies and collating finals. In Chorus, John crafted a simple exam. Twenty questions that any breathing student could answer; in truth, the concert the week before had been their final. The written test was an administration-required formality. He wouldn’t even look at it; they’d all receive 100s.

Sherlock’s exam for civics filled six typed pages.  Two hundred questions. “I _am_ being reasonable, John,” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Each question is worth ½ point. They can get 60 wrong and still pass.” He almost choked on the word ‘sixty,’ evidently disgusted to think that any student of his would degrade him or herself so badly.

The final morning of school, John accomplished a rarity; he made it to the kitchen before Sherlock. He started the coffee machine and tucked 4 pieces of bread into the toaster. By the time he’d finished scrambling the eggs, the coffee and toast would be ready.

“Sherlock! Your breakfast is getting cold! C’mon!”

Sherlock walked into the kitchen, and John’s knife and fork clattered against the plate. He couldn’t speak, stunned by what Sherlock was wearing.

A navy blue polo shirt. Boating shoes, no socks. And kelly green knee length shorts sporting dark blue spouting whales.

“John. Do close your mouth and eat your breakfast. You look as if you’ve never seen me before.”  Sherlock sat at the table, fabric napkin in his lap, raised a forkful of scrambled eggs to his mouth.

“Shorts…you?…suit…tie…shorts?!”

“I do believe you are finally bereft of your senses. Prolonged exposure to preteens will do that to you.” He spread raspberry jam on his toast, and after a large bite asked, “Can you speak coherently _now_?”

“One day you bitched at me for wearing shorts to school,” John said, eyes narrowed, searching Sherlock’s face for an answer. “You said, and I quote, ‘The day I dress like _you_ is the day I resign teaching.’ You _said_ that. _Why_ are you wearing shorts?”

Sherlock dabbed at his lips with his napkin and looked at the jam that stained the white fabric. He gathered courage to tell John what he needed to say. He took so long to speak that John jumped in.

“Sherlock. Are you…are you quitting and leaving?” John’s tanned face turned white and a small muscle throbbed at John’s jaw.

“Yes.” But when Sherlock read John’s reaction, he stammered. “No. I mean yes, but no. Christ, I’m making a mess of this. No, I’m not moving.” He smiled tentatively at John, hoping he wasn’t actually pissing him off.

John released his breath slowly, eyes closed. “Just tell me.”

“It’s good news,” Sherlock said, reaching across the table to take John’s hand. “We did talk about me teaching at the University.” What a clusterfuck that argument had been.

“In a capricious moment, I applied for the History Ph.D. program,” Sherlock said as John stared at him. “As a student.” Still, no response from John. “So I could be Dr. Holmes. We could be Doctors Watson and Holmes?”

John wasn’t laughing or even amused. He just listened.

“Anyway,” Sherlock said more quietly, “I was accepted into the program, and I start in August…if it’s okay with you, I mean. It will change our financial situation, but I’ve saved quite a bit…” He looked at John, almost afraid of what he would say.

“You are bloody _brilliant._ ” John leaned across the table and captured Sherlock’s surprise in a long, lingering kiss. “It’s about time you told me. It was miserable trying to keep it secret that I knew.”

“You knew? Bastard!” He threw his napkin at John’s head, and when he dodged it, Sherlock grabbed it and threw it at him again.

“Clean up after yourself once in a while, and you have a better chance of keeping your secrets secret!” John kissed Sherlock as he took his plate and rinsed it in the sink.

John leaned against the counter facing Sherlock, who was clearing the rest of the breakfast dishes.

“A lot has happened in 7 months, hasn’t it,” John smiled as he patted Sherlock’s ass, sticking up while he bent over to retrieve his napkin from the floor.

Sherlock moved toward John. Thigh to thigh. Chest to chest. Cupping John’s face with his hands. “Seven months ago, I was dying. My life was bereft of any spirit or light. Or love. Then I met the most amazing, beautiful, confusing man. And I knew that first night that I wanted to be with you every minute. I knew that night that I would love you always.”

John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s and nodded. “Always,” John whispered. Their small kisses said more than their words could manage.

Foreheads together. Fingers twined. Sherlock said, “ _You_ once said, and I quote, ‘If one day you would like to ask, I would like to answer.’” Again, John nodded.

“We’re still British citizens. We could, um,” Sherlock stammered. For the second time that morning, he wasn’t sure what John would say. “We could go to England. You could meet my parents. JohnWatsonWillYouMarryMe? InLondonInJune?” He rushed the words out. That way, if John said no, he could always claim that he had been completely and utterly misunderstood.

A kiss yes. Not any kiss. A brilliant raspberry jam and teeth and toast crumbs and daftly in love kiss.

John sang low in Sherlock's ear,

 

_Sherlock, it’s you and me;_   
_I know you’re my destiny._   
_Sherlock oh, you're my best friend…_   
_Sherlock, a heart so true_   
_Our love will pull us through._

 

“So, yes?” Sherlock grinned at the lyrics he knew John had changed from a cartoon’s theme song.

“Oh God yes,” John said, kissing Sherlock one last time before leaving for their last day at JAMMS.

John grabbed his backpack and left Sherlock to lock up the house. He watched John round the corner of the garage, whistling the cartoon theme song.

“You teach me and I’ll teach you,” Sherlock sang, finishing the song John whistled. Indeed.

_  
_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://giphy.com/gifs/1PFKJexfdpO7u yes. I'm insanely brilliant.
> 
> My next goal (fingers crossed) is a multichap fiction, featuring Mycroft and Lestrade at the Wedding. sigh. I do so love Mystrade. I hope you'll join me? xoxox


End file.
